


Blackhawk Retirement

by featheredschist



Series: Vital Communication [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drama, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Physical Disability, Recovery, Romance, Threesome - F/M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featheredschist/pseuds/featheredschist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshot of Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov, just after events of the Avengers movie. They adjust to life after loss, find out a secret, and learn to live again. Clint/Natasha/Phil; angst, hurt, comfort, f/m/m, threesomes, depictions of death, violence, romance, disability. Rated M, A/U, part of the Vital Communication 'verse;</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: same as all the others. I make no claims to any property resembling the Avengers, Marvel, or Disney, in any format. I'm playing in the sandbox, with the toys because dang it, it's fun! And I have a vivid imagination to boot.

At the shawarma restaurant, Clint Barton sat quietly beside Natasha Romanov, lost in his thoughts. She subtly reached over and tapped his knee, her head tilted to one side. He knew what she was asking, so he admitted it by shaking his head in denial. A slight frown marred her dirtied, porcelain features. He touched his one belt pouch, indicating the back-ups he hadn't been able to put in yet. A slow blink of understanding and he was allowed to focus back on his food. When he was done, he excused himself, and found the empty hallway that housed the restroom. There, he felt safe enough to change the damaged hearing aids for those back-ups. He pocketed the damaged ones, to remind himself to get that pair back to R&D for repair or upgrade. He waited a few more minutes before going back out to rejoin the others. Sitting back down, he touched Tasha's shoulder. When her eyes lifted to meet his, he smiled. A slow quirk of her lips was all the answer he needed.

The team split up the next day, after seeing the Asgardians off with the Tesseract. Clint and Tasha had to go back to SHIELD for a complete debriefing and reassignment. They weren't needed in New York any longer. Just before leaving, Tony Stark leaned into Natasha and said, "If SHIELD gets to be too much, you know where to go."

She lifted a manicured eyebrow, but nodded acceptance of the offer before joined Clint in the car.

"What was that?", he asked her, shifting the car into traffic.

"We have a place to go, no questions," was the quiet answer. Clint nodded, focused on driving. They had to make Quantico in two days.


	2. Start Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for grief, loss, Major Character death, homosexual encounters

The Quantico base of SHIELD was all offices, some medical, and completely boring. But orders from Fury saw Clint cooling his heels, his partner of 6 years beside him, outside an evaluator's office, only three days after New York. His anxiety made him jittery, left leg refusing to stay still. Natasha rolled her eyes. His off job persona was very similar to a hyperactive teenager's. She didn't even bother to try and still the reactive movement, as it wouldn't work. She sat quietly contemplative of the potential outcome of this meeting.

The door to the evaluator's office opened, and a young woman's face poked out, mouse brown hair tucked behind her ears. "Come in, Agent Barton. I'm ready for you," she said, disregarding Tasha all together. This made Clint bristle before Natasha brushed his shoulder with hers. He flicked his eyes in her direction. A subtle shake of her head deflated him immediately and he stood to quietly go into the woman's office. The door clicked shut behind him. Natasha let out a small sigh, and settled in to wait.

"Take a seat please, Agent," the evaluator said, heading behind her desk. Clint sat carefully on the edge of the chair, willing himself to stillness. 'Just like on an op', he thought to himself. It was easier then.

He watched the psychologist pull a file he assumed was his and open it. She scanned it, flipping a few pages then dropping it back to her desk.

"The Director wanted to know if you were able to go back out in the field, Agent. All our tests seem to indicate that," the woman said. She brushed imaginary lint from her doctor's coat.

"But?", Clint asked, feeling a sense of impending doom. With a single penstroke, this person could permanently ground him.

The psychologist sighed, a deep, pained sound, "Regardless of any personal feelings expressed by many, your record speaks for itself. It is felt by several people that this was an unusual set of circumstances and thus, you are not to be penalized," she explained, "You'll report to Assistant Director Hill in ten days for your next assignment, Agent. Dismissed."

Clint blinked, but quickly got up and left the evaluator's office.

Natasha saw him emerge, and picked up on his fresh, relaxed stance and smiled. She stood to intercept him. "So?", the sibilant slipped easily between her red lips.

"Report to Hill in ten days. What do you want to do?", he reported, a smile lighting only his eyes.

"I'm sure we'll think of something," she whispered, grabbing his arm, and tugging him from the depressing offices. They left Quantico and headed for a rental property on the beach Natasha had access to. A quick check around the perimeter of the property confirmed no disturbances, then they let themselves into the clapboard house.

Clint flopped onto the overstuffed, leather couch, letting his head fall back along the top edge. Tasha smiled fondly at him, then proceeded through the house, opening windows to let the ocean breeze carry out stale air. Eventually she came back to him, and settled on the couch beside him, tucking her smaller, lighter frame into the hard lines of his body.

"We'll get to mourn him privately, Nat. Then go on as he would want," he whispered, wrapping an arm around her. She only nodded, not trusting herself to speak in that moment. She did burrow tighter into his side.

His hand traced slow circles on her back, relaxing them both. "I can't believe he's gone, Clint," she murmured. "He promised!" Her tone was fierce, childlike.

"Oh darlin'", he softly whispered, drawing her into his lap. That simple movement broke her. Natasha Romanov, Black Widow, cried on her husband's chest.

"Shh, it'll be okay. Phil would be the first to tell you that," he told her, rocking her gently as though she were just five. Tears made their own silent journey down his face.

"He wasn't supposed to be there!", she cried.

"He was an agent, Nat. There would have been no stopping him," he tried to explain. Logically, they understood; their hearts did not. Natasha continued crying for another ten minutes, eventually quieting to sniffles. Clint's efforts to comfort her never ceased. His callused left hand rubbed her head, fingers tangled in her red curls. She sighed, curling into his strong embrace. Letting him be the strong one for now was a balm for her heart. She knew she would need to return the favor soon, as Clint carried guilt for Phil's death.

He didn't need to, but she knew her husband. His heart was too soft for the assassin's game, though he performed it well. Clint preferred support work, backing up his wife on her various missions, listening to their third, their handler, whisper in his ear.

Phil grounded their live wire lives, kept them sane when missions threatened to drive them insane. Fought to get them more privileges than any other field agents, kept them assigned together as much as possible. Loved them.

He first loved his team as assets, though loved his Hawk privately first amongst all others. Phil had ever been the one to gentle the wild bird that Clint Barton had been, and still was, even when eventually paired with deadly femme fatale, Natash Romanov.

When Clint turned Natasha, Phil had been very angry at his archer. Clint had quite deliberately gone against protocol and his orders, dropping off the grid to deal with her. Then he made one phone call.

When Phil appeared, Natasha had been afraid for the first time since trusting the blue eyed archer who promised her freedom, and hinting at more. Phil took Clint aside, staying in the safe house's main room, where Tasha was recuperating from a bullet wound in her shoulder.

"Are you out of your mind, Barton?", Phil asked, deeply drawing on his legendary status as "the unflappable Agent". Clint smirked at his handler-cum-lover, challenging the older man. Phil ran a hand through his thinning hair. Thinning from this type of repetitive motion, and genetics.

"She'll be great for SHIELD, Bossman!", Clint lipped off, full of brashness. Phil sighs, turns his head to peer at the woman who just stares at them. He can see the slight fear in her eyes.

"All right. I'll cover this with Fury. You owe me," Phil explains, rubbing his face in sudden tiredness. Clint's smirk blossoms into a full, toothy grin. "I knew you loved me best!", he crows, crowding the agent against the wall. Phil looks once more at Natasha, and then reaches for Barton. Natasha was no stranger to homosexual affairs, but Phil's kiss was the most possessive thing she'd ever seen. Clint wrapped his arms around his handler, deepening the lip-lock, as if trying to claim the other man's soul. They broke apart, panting a little.

"Agent Barton, you're a crazy man. Clint, I swear you'll be the death of me yet," in the space of two simple sentences, Agent Phil Coulson became just Phil. Natasha, who didn't believe in love until that moment, wanted that for herself. That possessive assurance that someone gave a damn for her well being.

It took another six months before she confronted Clint. "I want what you have," she told him one night as they waited for a mark in Saudi Arabia. Clint coughed, surprised.

"Hm, do you? You want the aggravation that comes with dealing with one of us?", he asked, feeling her out.

"Just one of you?", she replied coyly, eyes stealing a glance at her partner.

"Well, it'd only be fair to set you up with another agent at this point in your career with us," Clint teased, but missed the point. Phil chose that moment to come on the comm-link, "Stop that Barton, just invite her to join us already. Target is going to be in range in 10 seconds."

They straightened up from their relaxed positions, given no time to react to Phil's comment. They counted off the seconds in their heads. At five, the target reached visual range; at three, he was beside Natasha, who was able to slip in close to tranquilize him. Clint moved in next to catch the suddenly limp form and duck off into the nearby alley. An extraction team waited at that end of the alley and they took possession of the target Clint had in a fireman's carry over his shoulders. Business trip over with, the trio met back at the safe house for a fast debrief. Natasha had a small look of surprise on her face during that one. Clint like to laze about after missions, forcing the debriefings to run twice as long, where he got to spend time reassuring Phil that he was intact and had come to no harm. Their most recent missions, Natasha had come in for her own personal inspections.

Clint looked at Phil, "So what was that comment about?"

"Which one?", Phil demurred, a sly look on his face. He'd known what Tasha was after. She didn't want another agent, she wanted one of them. Or indeed, both of them.

"Phil!", Clint exclaimed. Phil laughed, then showed them that he could indeed bend the rules. He'd filled out most of their paperwork on this mission already. All they had to do was proof the sheets and then sign off on the reports. Phil filed them, then escorted his team away from the safe house for a period of R&R that Tasha came to find out would last at least two weeks. They made a triad after that mission.

Natasha sighed against Clint's chest, enjoying the tactile contact. She felt cut adrift in a maelstrom of uncertainty.

"C'mon Red, let's get some sleep. We'll do a memorial or something tomorrow," Clint picked her up and stood. He held her close, one arm under her legs, the other slipped around her shoulders.

"Okay," she murmured, too comfortable to care, as long as they stayed in contact with each other. He made his way to to the rear of the house, closest to the private beach, where the bedrooms where. He entered the master, and laid his wife on the bed.

Instead of letting her fall asleep in her 'working clothes', he gently undressed her unresisting body. He unzipped the black leather body suit, and slipped it off her torso. Slow movements of his hands unclipped her belt, and gently tugged off her boots. The rest of the suit slid off and slithered to the floor. Clint dropped belt and boots there as well, then grabbed the folded comforter to drag up into place, tucking it around this fragile, beautiful woman.

"I'll be right back," he said, gently kissing her. She sighed when he left, curling on her right side, hugging the comforter tight. He disappeared, but quickly returned, a couple of water bottles in one hand. He placed them on the nightstand, and shed his own uniform, toeing off his boots. He slid in beside Natasha and pulled her into his embrace. She turned in his arms, curling tight against him. They fell asleep in a tight ball, just a pair of lost children in adult bodies, cast adrift in mutual grief.


	3. Beach Memorial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Do not own, please don't sue for having an overactive imagination!  
> 3/3/13 minor editing of the formatting. Nothing else has changed!

The two exhausted assassins slept the afternoon and night through. When dawn's first light crested into the room, Clint was beginning to wake up. He knew Natasha was still asleep, so he moved very little, content to hold her. She came awake suddenly, as always, her honed, remade instincts demanding she check for danger even though she'd gone to bed safe.  


“Mornin'”, Clint said, briefly tightening his hold. He bent his head to kiss the top of her head.  


“Mm,” she mumbled. One small hand pushed on his chest and he immediately let go. She turned out of his embrace and sat up, stretching.  


“Water on the night stand, gorgeous. Beach run?”, Clint offered. She shook her head no, and reached for the pair of bottles he'd left the previous night. She handed him one and cracked the other to drink half of it still in bed.* He quaffed the whole bottle before pitching the empty into the trash and rolling out of bed.

Natasha admired the mostly naked form of her husband as he strode around the bed. He briefly reached up to his ears and tugged out the hearing aids, making her frown. 

He signed, “You were more important last night.” And he shrugged, dismissing any pain she thought he might have. It was negligible. Passing the bureau, he put the aids on the top and turned back to her. 

“Shower?”, he signed, holding out a hand invitingly. The frown disappeared as Tasha got out of bed to join him. She stood next to him, and touched his ears, silently asking the question. He shook his head, saying without words that his ears didn't hurt for having worn the aids for so many hours.

Showering together was something they did often, reaffirming the many bonds they shared. They were sort of used to occasionally not having Phil with them, but this time was just different, being surrounded by such a profound sense of loss rather than just “he's not here right now”. After cleaning up and dressing in casual clothes, the pair took stock of their supplies, discussed the week ahead and elected to to into town. Along their walk, their hands carried their conversation as Clint elected to leave the aids behind for a few hours.  


“Bonfire tonight on the beach?”, Tasha offered, her hands flowing from sign to sign.  


“Sounds good,” Clint agreed, “He liked those.”  


“Marshmallows you mean. He loved those more.” Bittersweet smiles cross their faces at the series of memories evoked on that one word. Tasha adjusted the small shawl she wore over her tank sundress. He slid his sunglasses back up his nose, glancing at her. Last night had been cathartic for her.  


At the grocery, Tasha spoke with the locals, firming up their cover story of being a young, married couple enjoying a late summer vacation before heading back to their offices. When asked about their work, it was easy to explain that they worked in Deaf services with the federal government. Tasha wanted to get fresh flowers for that night, so they detoured to the florist and picked up two bouquets of Phil's favorite flowers. Those choices had changed over the time they had known him, always representative of how he felt about those most important to him. The bouquets she chose were mixes of carnations, mums, gladioli, and a few anthurium, and alstroemeria*. Clint insisted on a few Bouvardia, daffodils, and hydrangea*, after spotting them in the back of the shop. Tasha offered a small smile for his inclusions. They paid for their choices and meandered back to the house.

They spent the rest of the day alternately gathering drift wood for a good sized, but manageable fire, and fishing for crabs for dinner that night.

 

That evening, as the sun descended behind the landward side of the house, casting it and the whole beach in shadow, Clint grabbed one of his incendiary arrows. He used the small flare on the broadhead to light the fire, sacrificing the arrow in the process. They decided to use the early stages of the fire to cook dinner on, so Clint helped Natasha arrange a grill stand over the fire and put a water filled soup pot on it. Once the water boiled, they tossed in the dozen or so blue crab they'd caught, and corn on the cob.

Several hours after dinner was cleared away, Tasha and Clint sat by the fire, telling stories of their “old man”. Eventually the fire was built up, and they decided it was time. They gathered the bouquets of flowers, having divided them between themselves. Natasha chose her goodbye in the flames, only saying a soft “Thank you for your love, and trust, husband,” before tossing the flowers into the roaring fire. She and Clint toasted the sparking flames as the flowers curled and withered with shots of Russian vodka.  
Clint chose the ocean for his. He stood, staring out on the moonlit sea, Natasha keeping a watch from a few feet away. He elected to walk directly into the surf, and knelt down to cast loose the flowers in his hands. Natasha kept an eye on him, but he just knelt in the surf. Occasionally, she heard a sniffle, but she did nothing, waiting him out. She knew he'd seek her out before long.  
Fifteen long minutes later, the fire slowly dying, Clint walked out of the ocean and over to Natasha where he fell at her feet and wrapped her damp arms around her waist.  


“Shh, beloved ястреб*. He is free from pain, and Earthly troubles, yes?” her diction reverted at times like these, pulling up her Russian roots. Though her words were soft, Clint could hear her. The damage to his hearing mostly affected his ability to deal with crowds and battle situations.* Clint finally broke, crying heaving sobs, clutching painfully at Tasha's hips until she grasped his shoulders and convinced him to shift position. He curled into a ball, deep in his misery, and she curled around him, offering her own small comforts, murmuring nonsense in Russian.

Eventually, his heart-wrenching sobs ebbed away and she was able to kiss away the salt stains on his cheeks. They sat, backs to the fire, until it became just coals and the night grew cold. Clint shoveled sand onto the pit, and buried the remains of their dinner there. They slowly walked back to the house for another night of recuperative sleep.

They spent the rest of the week at rest, letting their hearts scab over the gaping wound left by Phil Coulson's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * first – C'mon, you don't think they can't hold their bladders, and even add to it when necessary? Not easy, but possible, IMO.
> 
> * second – the flowers: definitions found here: http://www.theflowerexpert.com/content/aboutflowers/flower-meanings  
> but in order: Carnations, pride and admiration; mums, optimism, joy, long life, (white) loyal love; gladiolus, strength of character, honor; anthurium, happiness; alstroemeria, friendship; bouvardia, zest for life; daffodils, eternal life; and hydrangea, heartfelt emotion.
> 
> * third - ястреб is Russian for Hawk. Off Eudict.com and Google Translate. I felt it was more intimate this way.
> 
> * fourth – I'm making that up out of whole cloth. My headcanon (as I understand the word, someone feel free to leave a review telling me I misunderstand it) is giving me weird things for Clint...partially deaf, and still with Renner's magic voice...
> 
> PS - I cross my fingers that I am not inadvertently offending anyone in the Deaf community. Please drop a comment if I've crossed a line somewhere and help me fix any errors!


	4. Back in the Saddle?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer applies; and we're rolling, rolling, rolling. Extra warning for a swear word in this chapter. Also, I do not own or shill for Breakaway Co products. They came highly recommended. Also make no claims on Ipod, or Apple here.
> 
> 3/3/13 - minor editing of formatting. Nothing else has changed. Minor misspelling corrected (yesh, that I missed it for all this time!)

They reported back to SHIELD in New York, the helicarrier floating on the Hudson. Maria Hill met them as they came aboard.  


“Fury's got something for you two,” she informed them, waving a couple of junior agents over to take their gear to their rooms. The duo nodded and silently followed the Assistant Director up to the bridge.  


There they found Fury standing the watch, pouring over files scrolling by on the perma-glass screens before him. He looked up as they entered, his one eye taking in all the details he'd never get in a written report. His agents were alert, but a lasting pain lingered in their eyes. They carried themselves as if they knew the world would turn on them at any moment, postures taking Nick Fury back to the days when these two had first been recruited.

He hated that he caused them this pain. Necessary though it was, he felt more of his humanity slipping away each time. “Well Agents Barton, Romanov. Glad to see your trip did you some good,” he lied. A year off would not heal this pair. They nod at the Director, and stand, waiting. They are almost statues. He inwardly sighs.

Fury picks up a pair of manila folders. “Normally, you'd be on a rotation for another mission, but loss of your handler drops you to the bottom of the rungs.” No flinches, no outward expressions of emotion at the cold way Fury mentions Phil's death. “We're still rebuilding here, so we need folks to take on the new agents. You're being sent to the upstate facility for the next two weeks at minimum. The files detail your responsibilities. You report to the base supervisor tomorrow,” Fury finished. They accepted the files, nodded and left the bridge.  


A small exhalation, not at all a sigh, escaped Fury. Hill heard it though, and turned to him, “Will they recover?”  


“Maybe. Or they'll bolt,” he said.

 

Back in Natasha's room, the pair sat on her bed to go over the files. “Looks like we're training the usual layabouts, Tash,” Clint said.  


"Hm, appears so. Twenty recruits this time. I get hand to hand, and you're on the range. Usual situation, boring,” Tasha responded. The files looked the same as every other time they pulled babysitting duty. Usually when they were recovering from bad injuries, they got farmed out on this particular job, working recruits over the last bits of their training.  


Clint got a mischievous glint in his eye. “So let's change it up. You do the range, I'll take hand to hand. S'not like I'm teaching them my tricks after all,” he offered. 

Tasha looked at him and smirked. She nodded, liking this plan. Fury wouldn't care, as long as the training got done. The one who would probably care, was the base supervisor. Tasha checked the file to find that information.  


“Ha, Base Super is Agent Tromwell this quarter,” she gave a short, sharp laugh.  


Clint rolled his eyes, “Tromwell? Wonder what he fucked up to get training wheels for so long?”  


Tasha chose not to answer. Tromwell wouldn't tell them anyway.  


“Packed and on the road in 20?”, she asks instead, nudging his leg.  


“Fifteen,” he answers. She nods. They only need to get their weapons in order. 

Clint left her room to go to his, pulling out a bow case from under the bed once there. He checked the broken down recurve nestled in the foam padding, lifting each limb out and tracing the fingers of his right hand over the lamination, checking for damage. He spent equal time with the center grip, making sure the neoprene and leather strapping was secure and not raveling. He then checked his supply of bow strings, waxed and coiled in individual bags before being satisfied and snapping the lid of the case shut and locking it. He'd have to go to the armory to refill his backup quiver, but his main one was still full. He checked his scram bag, left packed at the bottom of his closet, fingers finding the hidden pockets that he used to stash round of ammo, knives, cash, ID/passports, and other tools of his trade. Once satisfied on his ready status, Clint left for the armory. He had eight minutes left.

 

Tasha reached under her bed for her own weapons case, checking over the matched pair of matte black Glock 26s. She also checked the cleaning supplies, ditching a mostly dry bottle of Breakaway gun oil and fishing a new one from a supply in a drawer of her bureau. Tasha also grabbed a new chamois, and an extra handful of bristle brushes for the cleaning kit. She'd need ammo, but that only meant a stop at the armory before meeting her Hawk. In her bedside table drawer, was a pair of boxes that contained her Widow's Bite bracelets. She checked the charges, and each cylinder came back green and ready. She packed the 2 boxes into her own scram bag and grabbed her gun case and left, heading for the armory. She also had eight minutes left.

They reunited at the armory, sharing smiles as they reached the door at the same time. The agent in charge looked up from his computer, saw who it was, and bent beneath his desk. He came back up with a pair of forms and a pen.  


“Sign these, Agents, while I get your supplies,” the armory supervisor said, leaving them at the desk and disappearing into the stacks and racks of equipment. Clint and Tasha signed off on the prepared forms, and waited for the super to return.  


“I wonder if our new handler will change anything Phil set up for us these past 6 years?”, Clint whispered, eyes on his boots. He fidgeted with a small knife he kept in a hidden sheath in his jeans.  


“If it does, we can ask Stark to outfit us. You know he'd enjoy making improvements on our gear,” Tasha quietly replied. Phil had done a lot to smooth the way for his agents in terms of them getting whatever supplies they needed for whatever assignments they had, no questions asked. Many departments, like the Armory, had prefilled forms they just had to sign to maintain accountability. It was just one more thing to miss, if it changed when they were reassigned.

Shortly the agent was back, a racked set of arrows in one hand, and a small carrying case in the other.  


“Full compliment, Agents, as per the usual arrangement,” the armory supervisor places both on the desktop and looks at them. “For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Agent Coulson,” he said, letting go of the armaments. Both Clint and Tasha nodded once, accepting the man's commiseration before taking up their gear.  


“Appreciated,” Clint said, before they turned and left.

 

They headed for the garage next, to sign out a black sedan to make the four hour drive to the upstate training facility. They played a fast three round of rock, paper, scissors to pick who drove first – Tasha – and loaded up and left SHIELD's HQ in record time. Clint plugged up an Ipod and set a random selection of jazz playing as Tasha got them on the road. They spent the trip in silence.

At the training facility, Tasha and Clint separate at the parking garage; Clint offering to find their rooms, hauling in their gear and Tasha checked in the sedan. The young, female agent that Tasha dealt with appeared skittish and afraid. Tasha simply leveled her usual cold stare at the girl, forcing her to fairly fly through the check-in procedures to clear Natasha out faster.

She went to find Clint and their rooms not five minutes later. The discovery of their rooms being not only on the same floor, on the same side of the compound, but next to each other was surprising. She found Clint in one room, her gear in the other. A quick sign to him asked if it was safe for her to be there and if they could talk normally. He nodded, hooking the desk chair out from under the desk with his toes.  


“So what's the word?”, she asked, folding herself into the proffered seat. He reclined on the double bed, hands tucked behind his head.  


“There's a meeting with Tromwell in an hour now that we're here. He'll give us the usual spiel about the training facility. I'll probably get my usual warnings about being a screw up or better example to the juniors,” Clint huffed a laugh.  


Tasha's lips quirked up a tiny bit at that. Her Hawk remained just wild enough to keep everyone on their toes, and only certain members of the senior staff could command his obedience. And only Phil and herself had commanded his loyalty. She wondered if they were going to stay with SHIELD now, or not, with him gone.

They took forty five minutes to stow their gear, then reported to Tromwell.


	5. Finding the Anchor, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This is where this particular story changes dramatically. It was neatly shadowing “Vital Communication”, and now, needs to leap ahead about 3 months or so, to become a fix-it in order to move forward properly. New warnings should apply, please pay attention to them. Characters might seem OOC going forward.  
> Warning for curse words.
> 
> 3/3/13 Minor editing for formatting. Nothing else has changed (unless I find something, as I did last chapter).

Bruce was in the medical lab, compiling the files on all Avengers. He made notes over graphs of injury trends, attempting to force a track on what encounters caused particular damages in his team. JARVIS had volunteered to hack SHIELD again, to pull the records on Clint, Nat and Steve. They worked in silence, save for the persistent scratching of Bruce's fountain pen against the notebook paper, for at least thirty minutes when JARIVS interrupted with an astounding discovery.

“Sir? I think you'd better call the team,” he told the doctor, putting a single medical file on the screen that coalesced in front of Bruce.  


“Hm?”, Bruce looked up, his hand slowly coming coming to a stop as his mind switched gears to focus on the new subject. His eyes caught the screen, and the file obligingly peeled open before him, like an overripe banana. “Well damn. Yes JARVIS, call them. But not here. I'll meet them in the Assembly Room. Call Nat and Clint first. And if Tony's involved in something,” Bruce was quite sure his normal distractions were not appropriate this time.  


“Yes sir. If I may, Mr Stark will respond because it's you,” and JARVIS left Bruce to read the medical notations on a man long thought dead. The accompanying pictures, from an old ID snapshot to more current, if jarring medical glossies, told a graphic tale.

Bruce sighed, scrubbing a hand through his salt and pepper hair. 'Damn SHIELD!' he thought, suddenly furious. The emotional spike reached the slumbering Hulk, who grumbled, and stretched in the back of his mind. He let the connection course with frustration, disturbing the Hulk from his sleep.

'Trouble?' was the crystal clear thought from his other self.  


'Maybe' and Bruce shared what he knew.  


'Will stay close. Hawk and Spider not happy' and Bruce consider that an understatement. He transferred the file to a tablet and left the lab. Everything else would be as he'd left it.

His walk to the 89th floor meeting room was distracted. He had eyes only for the tablet, and most of his attention to running commentary from the Hulk in his head. He never noticed Tony at his side until the other man cleared his throat. Pale brown eyes flicked in his direction, cataloging the danger level automatically before Bruce's attention snapped back into place.  


“Tony”, he faintly growls, still moving forward.

“Whoa, Big Green, you called me,”, the answer was a shade too flippant for the way Bruce was at that moment, but he knew Tony didn't recognize all the signs yet.  


“Sorry,” this time, Bruce sounded more like himself, but his eyes were creeping hazel just a little more.  


“S'alright. What's up?” Tony asked, reaching for the tablet.  


Bruce nudged his arm out of the way. “All at once, please Tony?”, he pleaded. The info was enough of a shock, but he felt they should all get it at once.  


Tony looked harder at his boyfriend, “Okay. You're calling the shots on this one,” and he slouched ahead, into the room.

Bruce sighed, he'd caught the undercurrent of hurt in Tony's voice. He'd make up to his lover later. As he arrived at the room, Steve and Thor entered from another door, his Hulk sharpened senses picking up the scent of the gym and their sweat, though they'd attempted to clean up. He noticed Nat and Clint already there, backs to the far corner, away from the projector screen that carried a floating stylized A. As everyone took their seats, Bruce sighed, closing his eyes.

'Here in case of trouble,' Hulk promised.  


'Just don't react if Natasha and Clint do, and we'll be okay' Bruce asked.  


'Agreed' and that was that.

“Thank you all for coming to this impromptu meeting,” Bruce began, like he was talking to the board. His reopened eyes were firmly pale hazel; anyone knowing about his co-consciousness with Hulk would realize how close to the surface Hulk was. He'd put his tablet down, and, as if that had been a prearranged signal, JARVIS brought the file up on the big screen.

“JARVIS and I found this in a not so routine hack of SHIELD's medical,” and he sat down. The file spoke for itself. Slowly, images and reports scrolled by, detailing the last few months.

Nat and Clint moved forward in their seats, disbelief warring with anger clashing on their faces.  


“How?”, Clint whispered, one hand, his left, reaching up as if touching the screen would mean he would be touching the lost man.

Tony had grabbed a copy of the file to his own place once Bruce sat down, and was speed reading through it. “Experimental tech. Fuck, that's where it went!”, he exclaimed, throwing himself back in his chair, the action propelled both from the table.  


Steve and Thor looked confused, but cautiously happy. Nat was steadily cursing in Russian, her hands fisted at her sides.

Until Clint turned to her and said, “Please?” She only nodded. And he let out an explosive breath, as though he'd been holding it.

Clint turned to Bruce. “Thank you for finding this, finding him. We'll take it from here,” he said, voice going cold and clipped. Bruce had a vague idea what that meant. He shook his head.  


“No,” he said and didn't flinch when a knife thunked into the plaster beside his right ear. Tony squawked.  


“We”, he emphasized, “We will take it from here. JARVIS is already working on some details. You two,” he points at the pair of assassins, “and him,” he uses his other hand to bring the picture of Phil into the mix, “Are a part of us, a part of this team. We will get him back, together.” He rolled off a long stream of Russian for Nat, promising her that the world would burn before he failed her in this. The bright light of vengeance lit those hazel eyes, his voice a rumbling growl with each word, the Hulk backed his every word.. Nat look at him then, really looked, and capitulated. Clint scooped her out of her chair, pulling her across his lap to croon soothing noises and pat her back for awhile. She hid her face, not wanting anyone to see how fragile she was just then.

“Okay,” Tony muttered, “What now?”  


“Dr Banner? I have the information you requested”, JARVIS' timing was perfect.  


Bruce's face was eery as his lips quirked in a dark smile. “Now, we plan to get our Phil back.”


	6. Finding the Anchor, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer - same as always. Here comes our fix-it, because we all know COULSON LIVES!!! YAY!!! (You can't keep a damn good agent down, you know)
> 
> 3/3/13 - Minor editing for formatting. Nothing else has changed.

Phil woke from yet another drug-induced nap, and groggily realized there was a janitor in his room. Mopping. The bitter chemical smell of the disinfectant in the man's bucket did more to clear Phil's head than any double shot of Italian dark roast espresso he'd ever had.

His hand on the call button spasmed once, pressing the raised, red plastic. Minutes later, a nurse showed up, chivying the janitor out of the room. The mobile man with the mop propped one of those yellow, plastic caution signs and dragged his mop and bucket out into the hall, whistling a tune that was vaguely familiar to Phil. The nurse bustles about him, dark hair pulled into a chignon* with dainty curls pulled in front of her ears. Her bright blue eyes are merry with warmth and life, and are a balm to Phil, they remind him of Nat's eyes. She takes a cup and fills it with water from a styrofoam pitcher on the rolling table beside his bed, dropping a straw in it. Brings the nearly full cup to Phil and holds the straw for him to greedily suck the water through, soothing his parched, cotton filled mouth. When he spits the straw out, having drunk his fill of 2 glasses, the nurse smiles.

“Thank you,” Phil's voice is still scratchy. Mostly from the intubation tube, and continued oxygen therapy.  


“You're welcome. I'm Tasha Roman, your nurse tonight. That was Frank Haggard, our floor's janitor. Don't mind him none, he's harmless,” she told the healing agent, reaching to the controls to sit him up properly and take the strain off his chest and back. “Doc's supposed t'come by in a bit. Figure you might want t'be awake for that,” the soft smile turned into something of a grin, all teeth.  


Phil just nodded, truly too tired to do much more. Nurse Roman bustled about, checking all the connections to the various monitors, the IV line, and his oxygen tubes. She asked about his pain level to see if he needed more relief on board, but he wanted to stay awake for awhile. She left him then, continuing rounds.

He could still hear the janitor, whistling, as he worked out in the hall. This time, Phil was sure he recognized it as a Clint Black song, “Are You Sure Waylon Done It This Way”. A country song that Clint had on his playlist. The first time it had come up, they were on the road to an OP in Tennessee. The OP was, all things considered, a cakewalk, and they'd had some unexpected downtime to swing through Nashville. Clint's taste in music was eclectic and varied. That memory made Phil sigh, pulling at his still healing chest.

Oh how he missed his Hawk and Spider. His eyes slipped closed on a powerful surge of emotional pain that brought tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. He sat in silence, mentally cursing the situation. He hated being out of contact, for any length of time.

Twenty minutes later, the doctor showed his face in the door and it took of Phil's training to keep his reaction to only a slight widening of his eyes. There was no hiding Banner, was there? Oh, he looked different, but for someone trained to spot the differences, they were there. His glasses were gone, and his hair had been styled instead of left to curl wildly. And was he wearing contacts? Phil could have sworn the scientist had warm, chocolate brown eyes, not hazel that was damn near green.

“Ah, Mr Phillipson. Pleasure to meet you, I'm Dr Bruce Bannerton, internist,” the new, yet old face crinkled at the edges of the eyes and mouth as he smiled. Dr Bannerton strode forward with the clipboard of Phil's records in his hands.  


“Hello Doctor,” Phil whispered, putting more into that one word, revealing that he knew it was Banner, under such a ridiculously easy cover. The smile got wider, as though an acknowledgment, but verbally the doctor just went about his business.  


“Everything is ticking along nicely, the wound healing clean with no signs of infection. I think we can talk about your future, if you are feeling up to it?”, Banner glanced at the paperwork to figure out his next line of discussion. Phil slowly nodded. Would he be getting out of this back of nowhere hospital? Would he get to see Clint and Nat again? _That_ was the future he wanted more than anything.

Bruce looked at Phil, noting the slightly distracted look in the agent's eyes when he brought up the future. “So we need to make plans to start rehabilitating your upper body from the injury and repair surgery. There aren't extensive in-patient facilities here, so we're looking for a place that has room for you. Is there anyone we can call for you when we get those arrangements made?” Banner goes on to explain.  


Phil thinks, 'Can I even contact Nat and Clint? Surely Fury is keeping tabs on me here. To hell with him,' and he makes his decision. “Yes Doctor, I have someone you can contact for me, if you have pen and paper?”, he requests of the other man. Bruce nods and pulls a pen from the breast pocket of his lab coat and finds a scrap of paper Phil can scrawl on. Phil manages to write out one of Clint's aliases and the number for their home, his hand shaking. He hoped this was the right thing to do, and more importantly, that SHIELD didn't interfere.  


Bruce takes both from the agent when he's done and says, “I'll have one of the nurses call in the morning then, all right?” And he pockets the slip of paper.  


Nurse Roman returns at that point. “Oh, Dr Bannerton! I'm so glad to have caught you still here!”, she says, sounding very rushed.  


“What's wrong, Nurse?” Bruce directs his attention to the woman. She looks a little freaked out, and Phil begins to feel adrenaline flushing his system. For what, he's not sure, but he'd give it a go.

“Tech department called, computers are down at all the nurses' stations on this floor, as well as 4 and 6. They're sending someone, but we'll have to otherwise increase our rounds. We'll manage, for a little while,” she got out in a rush.  


“Make sure the other nurses are aware, and the med techs can be of help as well,” Bruce told the nurse, his smooth, quiet tone reassuring. She nods and leaves him with Phil. Bruce chooses then to do a physical check of the wound site and listens to Phil's breathing, pronouncing everything “Good”, when he was finished. He smooths the hospital gown back in place and retucks the blankets. He leans over Phil to check on one of the monitors, which Phil finds odd, until...  
“Yes, I know the cover is sloppy. That was deliberate on our part. Nat's here, that was her just now. Clint's whistling in the halls,” Bruce barely vocalizes these details and Phil knows that his mouth isn't moving much. Phil just breathes, deeply grateful for the bulk of Bruce's upper body shielding him from security or prying eyes. Bruce continues, “Tony's mucking with the computers, and soon, probably tomorrow, security will suffer a problem. That's when you'll get transferred.” There's a dry amusement in his voice that makes Phil smile. Such a simple extraction operation. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *chignon – bun type hairstyle
> 
> Huh, another cliffy, different story. Weird that.


	7. Winching the Anchor Home, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Same as the rest – I do not own. We're on the fix-it portion of our story. YAY!
> 
> 3/3/13 - Minor editing for formatting. Nothing else has changed.

Phil spends the rest of the night and most of the next day drifting in and out of sleep, listening to the janitor who occasionally breaks into soft, crooning love songs, as if Clint was trying to remind Phil of what he waiting for him. It's all he can do to not shout “I haven't forgotten! I love and miss you!” But he can't, not here, not now. Sweet sleep is his only escape for now.

Later that day, when the staff changed over again, Phil woke to the sounds of voices outside his room. It's Nurse Roman, “Nat” his mind fixes, and the janitor, “Clint”.  


"Ain't you gone home yet, Frank?”, he hears Nat ask the other man.  


“No ma'am,” and damned if the mid-western drawl isn't out in full force in Clint's voice, the one his archer uses when he knows full well he's been up to no good.

“Still here. George called out, said his ma was sick again.”

“Oh, Mrs Clemmons. I'll have to send somethin' over for them when I get off shift. Well, why don't you go catch a nap in room 518 for a couple of hours? Doc's not due til the ride's here for 520 at 8, so he won't know if I wake you at 6,” she told him. 

Phil was concerned. Clint had kept himself awake, for this? He shook his head. Asset not taking care of himself. That was normal. But the patter soothed him. It didn't matter if it was real or not, hearing their voices as if it was a real OP relaxed him and buoyed him up like nothing else since he'd been stabbed on the helicarrier. Nat bustles into his room, and he snaps his eyes closed in an attempt to keep from crying at the sight of his wife standing so close all he needed to do was twitch his hand between the supports of the railing on the bed.  


“Soon now dear. There'll be some folks from out of New York come to pick you up later, after dinner. Doc gave me that number to call, your Francis? Said the family'd be there in the morning to see you,” she told him, twitching his blankets straight and smoothing his IV line and the other monitoring wires. He kept his eyes shut the entire time, but knew she hesitated over a couple of the wires to give his forearms a reassuring squeeze.  


“Sounds good,” he managed to say, voice breaking with trapped emotion.  


“Now let me know if you need anything, sugah. I'll be back in about half an hour with dinner,” she said, smoothing the blanket and leaving him alone.

He remained that way for five minutes before the ceiling tiles shifted, some dust raining down into the room.  


“Haggard, my haggard, won't you come roost with me?”, Phil whispered, using a long ago established code that would bring Clint in no matter what happened during a mission, or at SHIELD. There was a small sussuration of sound, barely noticeable above the beeping of the heart monitor. One of the tiles lifted, and Phil looked up to see a much beloved, and careworn face leaning out of the newly made hole. A small smile crossed his lips when he locked gazes with those beloved, bright blue eyes. His hands shakily rose and formed smalls signs in ASL, telling his archer how much he'd missed him, and that being taken from New York was not his idea. Clint simply blinked back, accepting this information for now. Phil simply relaxed under the intense stare of his Hawk.

When 20 minutes had passed, the ceiling tile softly thumped back into place, just as footsteps from the corridor got louder. The person that came in with a tray of food was not Nat, nor anyone else that Phil recognized on the hospital staff for his floor. Phil did not let any hint of surprise show on his face, nor any tension telegraph through his body.  


“And here's your dinner, Mr Phillipson!”, the young candy stripper chirped happily, putting the tray down on the moving table and wheeling it in place over Phil's lap. As she tried to move to start feeding him, the door to his room opened again, admitting the janitor that Clint was portraying, a spray bottle of some cleaning fluid in one hand, and a rag and squeegee in the other. Worn, brown overalls covered the tight gray t-shirt he wore for a passable uniform. Phil thought Clint had raided his own laundry for that shirt.

“Well, hello! Glad to see yer awake, mister,” Frank exclaimed happily, moving into Phil's ensuite bathroom. 

The candy stripper suddenly became nervous, and fumbles the lids off the individual plates and drops two with solid thunks to the linoleum covered floor. Phil lets himself react to that, shoving the table sideways as his body jerks. The heart monitor picks up the increase in beats. The janitor pokes his head back through the door.  


“Everything all right in here?”, he drawls, eyeing the girl.

“Yes, yes. Fine. Just an accident, right Mr Phillipson?” she wasn't expecting an answer. She had to go around the bed to put the table back in place. Her back is turned and Phil shoots a glance at Frank in the door of the bathroom. He manages two signs: “trouble” and “unknown” before having to still his hands and fingers as the girl turns back to him. Frank just looks on, but his head jerks, sharp and short. It's not quite an understanding, but it reassures Phil nonetheless. Frank pulls his head back into the bathroom, rattles around a bit, flushes the toilet and then comes back out.

But this time, it is not Frank that emerges, but Clint. He's moving for stealth as the candy stripper hasn't noticed him, this time. The squeegee or spray bottle apparently held other items as Clint holds an auto-injector secure in his left hand. As the candy stripper pulled the table back in place, Clint swoops in, fast and deadly quiet, stabbing the auto-injector into the side of the girl's slim neck. He uses his palm to make sure the drug is released and to Phil's eyes, it is fast acting. The girl collapses like a marionette with cut strings and Clint catches her around the chest, just under the arms. He drags the unconscious body up, and carries her into the bathroom. Clint leverages her into the shower and hog ties her with the cut cord from the assistance call system.  
Clint comes back out, smiles at Phil to reassure him, but disappears out of the room. He returns with Nat and Banner in minutes.

“Well, this changes things,” Bruce says, moving to the monitoring machines and Phil's side.  


“Will the others be affected much?”, Nat asks, moving the cooling dinner off the table so Clint can put down the clothes he's miraculously found in the heretofore unused closet.  


“No, in fact, they are nearly here. I've texted Tony to have them meet us around back instead, so we're going to play a bit of charades, and roll out a couple of body bags. Clint, you'll have to leave on your own,” Clint nods, he expected that. “Nat, you can help me with Phil and the girl we've just acquired,” Bruce tells Nat, carefully turning off the hospital monitors. Phil thinks it's odd that Bruce is the one in charge here. Something else he'll have to ask about.  


“Tony will generate the cover we need to mask Phil's new method of disappearance. And I'm sorry Phil, but you'll be leaving the hospital in a body bag,” Bruce shrugs, apologizing. Phil quirks one side of his mouth, humored by the unusual idea for the extraction. Bruce then removed all the now useless medical paraphernalia, but set up some temporary monitoring devices, simply saying “Starktech” when Phil looked at him. The two agents and one doctor left Phil for a little while to assemble what they needed to complete the masquerade of transporting two bodies, instead of the original plan of moving one nicely recovering patient to a rehab facility. It struck Phil as intriguing that Bruce was so capable. Nothing like this was entered into the man's file.

Clint returned first, and helped Phil change into the clothes they'd brought. A pair of faded, well worn jeans, and a short sleeved, button up in Phil's favorite color of cornflower blue were followed by a pair of soft cotton socks and loafers that slid easily onto his feet. They had a moment to themselves and Clint just folded Phil into his embrace, tucking the other man's head under his chin. Phil noticed the faint trembling, but didn't remark upon it, or the occasional splashes of tears that hit the top of his head. He raised his shaky arms to circle his archer's hips.  


“Clint, oh Clint,” Phil murmured, over and over again. Neither had believed they'd see the other again. Both had been in the New Mexico facility when Hell on Earth erupted with Loki's arrival. Compromised agents were never as lucky as Clint. He had the trust and faith of his other two thirds to make sure he'd come back from the possession. Some other sort of Divine was looking out for him that it was Nat that he encountered on his way to the detention level who felt up to the task of stopping him. Was really the only one besides Phil, and maybe Fury, who could.  


“Phil” was filtering into his ear, as more than a subvocal sound, and more than a fever dream. Clint pulls himself together first, sniffling a little to dry up the waterworks. He tightens his hold on Phil, whispering, “If we'd both been lost, Nat would have burned SHIELD for it.”  


“I know,” Phil responded. While Natasha had less than half the time with them than they had as a pair, the boys knew that she had given them everything. Phil had a complex and very secret file that detailed her complete history, from the Red Room until Clint brought her in from the cold. They even had advance intel on the project called the Winter Soldier. Fury would pay dearly for that kind of information, and had no idea he had it under his very nose.

Natasha had given Phil and Clint access to all her previous identities, including the supposedly burned ones. They had immediately reciprocated, giving her everything about themselves, including those few identities they still used, when loaned out to other agencies.

 

After awhile, Clint relaxed his hold on his husband. They did not separate until Nat and Bruce returned with a pair of gurneys, ominous black bags perched on top of each. Clint stepped out of the circle of Phil's arms, quickly replaced by Nat, who simply stroked Phil's hair a few times and murmured Russian endearments over and over again. Clint and Bruce loaded the still unconscious candy stripper onto one gurney, zipping the black plastic up over her face. Bruce had checked her vitals and was satisfied she was stable, and would remain out. When they were done, Bruce watched the three reunited agents for a few moments. He quietly prayed something like this never happened to him, again, but his unresolved issues with relationships; 'Tony' his mind supplied; made that unlikely. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose before breaking the bittersweet tableau before him.

“I'm sorry agents. We have to go, now. Phil, it will be easier if you lay back down and let Clint and me transfer you to the other gurney. Natasha, can you set up the bag please?”, he told them. The trio broke apart, Clint helping Phil to lie prone on his bed again.


	8. Winching the Anchor Home, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer – same as always, please don't sue because I'm playing in Disney/Marvel's sandbox!
> 
> 3/3/13 - Minor editing for formatting. Nothing else has changed.

Nat moved to unfold and hold open the other body bag. Clint and Bruce easily maneuvered Phil's unresisting body into that second bag. Bruce let the agents take a few seconds to reassure themselves of the validity of this idea. Clint started to zip the bag up around his husband, giving over to Nat when he couldn't go past the man's chest without visibly shaking. Before he turned away, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Phil's forehead. 

“See you on the plane,” and Clint left the room, the mask of his cover snapping into place, his eyes gone distant, his brow lowered in concentration.  


Natasha also leaned over Phil, and kissed his eyes closed, suggesting, “Don't watch. It's bad enough to just to listen. Bruce's monitors will make sure you are okay. I have to play out the end of my shift, then we will meet again on the plane, my heart.” He smiled then, just for her, and let the cold plastic fall into place as the zipper sounded ominous in his ears.

“Let's go, Nurse Roman. We need to get these bodies transferred to the ME immediately,” Bruce said, resuming their cover. The gurney moved out, one wheel squeaky. After an interminable time, the gurney was loaded into a transport, doors slammed shut and one thumped on, in a universal signal of “all set” to the driver. 

With that signal, the bag is quickly unzipped and Phil finds himself being held down by a weeping Pepper Potts.  


Tony's snark wasn't far away either, “Figures you'd break character, Potts! Where's your inner spy, huh?”  


“Oh Tony, shove it,” Pepper growled out between sniffles. And Phil laughed, even if it hurt the still healing chest wound.  


“Sight for sore eyes, Agent,” Tony did say, grasping his hand briefly when Pepper sat back up. Phil blushed a little, trying to beat back the increased pain in his chest.  


“Sir, Agent Coulson's heart rate is slightly elevated, and endorphin levels are also up,” JARVIS cuts in, his smooth voice reminding them all that Phil was still on the injured reserved list.  


“Of course, J-man. What did Bruce say to do?” Tony said, tapping a finger on his lips.  


“Tony, drive. I think I can handle this much,” Pepper scolds. A small computer screen reveals itself along the wall of the vehicle and gives text instructions for Pepper to see to increasing Phil's comfort.

“What about the girl?” he asks as she gives him the equivalent of a hypospray in the shoulder, pain relief flooding through his body almost immediately.  


“Steve and Thor have her. Natasha said something about waiting til she was awake before introducing her to the finer points of wet work,” Pepper grimaced on the last phrase, but knew what her team did and accepted certain members' dark pasts.  


Phil freed one of his hands and grasped one of Pepper's, “It's to be expected. Don't worry, she won't harm the girl, much.”  


“It's the much that worries me, Phil. That girl looked like a teenager!”, Pepper protested.  


“Ah, I see,” Phil's inscrutability came to the fore, “Do you know how old Clint was when he started?” She shook her head. “Sixteen.” Pepper gasped, her free hand flying up to cover her mouth in her shock. He chose not to reveal Nat's age, knowing it would likely cause intense problems between the pair. Natasha needed a girl friend, someone outside of SHIELD to bond with; and she could do much worse than Pepper Potts.  


“I doubt this girl is so young, just inexperienced. Nat and Clint will get to the bottom of it,” Phil reassured her.  


“Do all spies start so young?”, she felt she had to ask.  


“No,” Phil prevaricated, “I was recruited from the Rangers. Clint was picked up by SHIELD because of his morals, and unique skill set. He'd fallen into the trade purely by circumstance.”  


“And Tasha?”, Pepper whispered, half afraid to know the answer.  


“Let her come to accept you, then ask her. That's all I can promise,” Phil said, closing the matter. She nodded. They'd begun something of a friendship since the two agents had come to live at the Tower.  


Tony wisely stayed silent and focused on driving. They were headed to the airport and one of his jets, that would get them back to New York. Hopefully Tasha, Clint and Bruce would also be on that flight.

The program left behind in the computer network would write a notation that Phil's condition had worsened, from a staph infection. And that while he'd been moved to ICU, he'd not survived the night. Staph was a nasty thing, and the follow-up coroner's report would indicate that the infection had lain dormant and only “activated” because of the resultant injury and surgery that the subject had recently experienced.

 

They got Phil aboard the jet, and the vehicle disposed of. The gurney and body bag left inside the van as an unknown Stark employee drove it out of sight. Phil breathed a sigh of relief to be ensconced in the plush interior of a Stark jet, a cup of soup cooling by his side. He tried not to fidget as they waited for the others to appear.  


“I knew I should have pulled the damn fire alarm,” Tony grumbled more than once, as he paced the cabin fretfully. Pepper had turned her attention and worry to Stark Industries business left waiting while she played super spy. Steve had already contacted them, to say that the candy stripper was still unconscious and that he and Thor were having a decent trip, expected to make the Tower late the next day.

Only an hour later, the remaining members of the team put in an appearance. They'd managed to clean up and now appeared more like themselves than when Phil first laid eyes on each of them.  


“There you are!” Tony chivvied the others on board and into seats, then headed to the cockpit to tell the pilot they were ready. Clint and Nat claimed seats close to Phil, and Bruce checked him over for any new stresses from the extraction and transport as the plane taxied down the runway. Bruce's stance barely shifted when the plane left the ground, his attention focused on the tests he was running.

“Pepper gave you some pain relief meds earlier?”, he asked, checking the injured man's pulse.  


“Yes. Nice delivery system by the way. SHIELD might be interested,” Phil answered.  


“Hm, maybe. Doubt the patent holder wants to go that route,” Bruce revealed.  


“Ah. Noted,” Phil withdrew then, letting the doctor finish up.  


Bruce eventually turned to Clint and Tasha. “Of course he needs more rest, but he'll be fine. We'll set up a strong recovery plan once we're back home,” he told them. Clint grinned, while Tasha just relaxed in her seat.

Bruce left them alone and went to sit with Tony.  


“Well?”, Tony asked quietly.  


“The nanites are already at work, repairing the rest of the wound site. I predict about a week to be sure,” Bruce responded, just as quietly. Tony's self satisfied smirk glimmered for a moment before Bruce nudged his leg. Catching his eye, the physicist shook his head, “Save the crowing for later, genius. It's just started,” Bruce warned. Tony only snorted, clearly unimpressed with Bruce's negative attitude. This would work, and get Agent back to 100% that much faster.


	9. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: same ol', same ol'. PS – any medical inaccuracies are entirely my own.  
> I've come to realize that my numbering on this is fouled up. FFNet and AO3 number from 1, including the prologue, and that throws me whenever I upload. This should really be chapter 8, not 9. When we get to 10 next week, I'll go about renumbering them, and putting the damn chapter titles in place. So don't freak out when you get new alerts ok? Nothing will have changed but the chapter headers.
> 
> 3/3/13 - Minor editing for formatting. Nothing else has changed.

The jet's interior wouldn't allow Clint and Tasha to get any closer, which frustrated Clint. He desperately wanted to wrap himself around Phil's body and hold him tight. Phil's hands twitched rhythmically, fingers slowly spelling out words he otherwise lacks the strength to say any other way. 

Nat leans out of her chair long enough to put her hands over his, stilling his movements. “Take your rest, my own. We know everything you would say,” she tells him.  


Phil shakes his head, weakly, “No. Need to understand. Fury.” He was very tired.  


“Will be made accountable,” she promises, patting his hands and them resettling back in her chair. Phil huffs but subsides. He settles into an uneasy sleep for the rest of the flight.  


Clint looks over at Nat, “I can't believe...”  


“Believe my Hawk. He's as real as you or I. Now, will you sleep a little? We still have 3 hours back to New York,” she cajoled him into sleeping, promising without words that this was very real. Clint went to take his nap on a bench seat behind Phil's, giving both Nat and Phil gentle kisses as he left them in the main cabin. He stopped beside Bruce, Tony and Pepper.  


“Thank you,” he said, looking at the two geniuses and one CEO. Bruce smiled, Tony nodded, and Pepper beamed. It was enough their family was together again. He barely remembered his hearing aids before sleep over took him when he stretched out on the bench.

 

The plane's landing didn't wake either sleeping agent, which was good for Phil. Nat and Tony went to get Clint.  


“Tony, don't. Clint is not the best person to surprise,” Nat tried to warn the billionaire.  


“It's fine, Natasha. I won't touch him. Hey Legolas!”, Tony called. Except Nat knew Clint probably wouldn't respond to Stark. She ducked around him into the smaller space and immediately saw the aids sitting on the armrest of the bench seat.  


“I'll get him up, Stark,” she tried to command him.  


“Why didn't he? He can't be that far out of it? What are those?” Tony spotted the tiny hearing aids. Nat sighed in defeat.  


“Hearing aids. Now, let me wake him, please?” she asked. He stopped short. Natasha never asked him for anything. Never asked anyone for anything. It made him back off immediately.  


“Sure, no problem,” he said, slumping to lean back against the bulkhead.  


“Thank you,” she responded, turning to Clint.

She reached out a hand, and gently touched his shoulder. His blue eyes snapped open with her touch, going instantly to her face, confirming it was someone he knew. His right hand came up to scrub across his face, and he sat up, reaching for the hearing aids with his left. Continued contact made him pause before inserting them though, training his gaze on Nat once more.  


“Stark,” she said, tilting her head to one side where she knew Tony still stood. Clint's eyes slowly closed, his shoulders tensing under the perceived upcoming onslaught of abuse for hiding this problem. He placed his aids into his ears, and got up to find the head, ignoring the issue for the moment. There was something more important than his disability to deal with. And his name was Phil Coulson.  


“Can we address this later, Stark? Phil's more important to both of us,” Nat tried reason when she turned back to Tony.  


“I'm hurt Romanov, that you think I'd want to, what, flay the meat from the man's bones right now?”, Tony acted insulted, but knew, with her past experience with him, it had been a valid concern.  


“Now, come on, Happy's got the chopper waiting. We'll be back in the Tower in 20,” Tony nudged, trying to her focused back on Phil.  


She shook her head. “Waiting on Steve and Thor to bring out new friend, so I can have a heart to heart with her. Take Clint, but be gentle with him,” she promised pain with that request. Tony simply nodded. She disappeared out of the plane.

 

Phil woke up once the Avengers got him back to Stark Tower. Clint was at his side, but Tasha was conspicuous in her absence.  


“Clint?”, Phil murmured, hoping he'd be heard.  


“Yeah Phil?” was the immediate response.  


“Nat?”  


"Talking to that candy stripper. Don't worry, she promised to leave her in one piece,” Clint answered, putting his hand on Phil's right shoulder. Phil took a moment to look around his new quarters. Spartan furnishings at the moment, just his bed, a cot, tv/dvd combo on the wall, and a pair of doors. He assumed one went to a bathroom, but wasn't ready to explore yet. A large set of windows showed they had to be pretty high up in the Tower proper, as Phil could see actual sky before it was occluded by a nearby building.  


“Do you want anything?”, Clint asked, anxiety threading his words.  


“Just you and Nat,” Phil said, closing his eyes. He was very tired.  


“Always,” Clint promised. He watched Phil sleep a while, then went to find Bruce and Tony. “JARVIS, let me know if he starts to stir, and don't let anyone in there without me or Nat present,” he demanded of the AI.  


“Of course, sir,” JARVIS replied.

 

Bruce and Tony were not far, having appropriated another area for a separate, small lab just for the work they were doing for Phil.  


“Hey guys? He's sleeping again, is that normal?”, Clint asked, by way of greeting. He was very worried. Phil had been more awake in the hospital.  


“Yep, perfectly normal, Katniss,” Tony waved his concerns off.  


“For the treatment to work, it's best he's asleep,” Bruce explained.  


“What's going on? What treatment?”, Clint became alarmed.  


“Tony, didn't you tell him?”, Bruce turned on the engineer.  


Tony shrugged, unconcerned, “Tell him now.”  


“Nat will...” Clint didn't finish.  


“I will do what, my Hawk?”, Natasha asked, appearing seemingly from nowhere.  


“Tony and I found traces of nanites trying to repair the damage Phil had taken in his fight with Loki. However there was some programming issues SHIELD didn't know about. That original team of doctors had to flush the defunct bots from Phil, to let him heal naturally. We were able to fix the coding and then redeliver them to his system,” Bruce explained.  


“That's what Tony meant?”, Clint wondered.  


“Yes. Apparently, SHIELD borrowed this tech the last time Natasha prowled the corridors,” a soft smile from Bruce took any sting out of his words. She wasn't surprised there had been unauthorized tech stealing back then, with Stark's health on a proverbial roller coaster.  


“It just wasn't ready to use, then or now,” Nat supplied.  


“Correct. No one was aware of the coding glitches. Basically kept the nanites turned off. If things progress the way they are, Phil will be back to normal inside five days,” Bruce continued.  


“100%?” Clint asked, breathless with hope.  


“That is the projection. He'll still need therapy to bring his muscles back up to snuff, but otherwise, yes. Tony mentioned something to me, about your hearing?”, Bruce took a chance on their trust of him.  


Clint looked startled and glanced at Nat, who only looked resolute. She gave him her support, but wouldn't make any decisions for him. He reached up to prize out an aid, and held it out to Bruce.  


“Early sonic arrow did the damage, maybe eight years ago? Phil would remember the specifics,” Clint explained.  


“All right. Would you like for me to help?”, Bruce offered. He didn't take the hearing aid, just indicated that Clint could reinsert the device. Clint just held it in his hand. This was part of the over all case studies they needed for the nanites, work on fresh wounds, and older damage. If Clint allowed it, Bruce would gain valuable information.  


"Let me think about it?” Clint hedged, nervous.  


“Of course. Let me know if you have questions,” and Bruce left the pair alone.

 

”Nat, what do you think?”, he asked his wife. She shrugged and stood, reaching for him. He took her hands.  


“Let us see how our own does, then you make the choice, hm? Now, get some rest. You still need to recover from being awake the entire time we were at that hospital,” she offered, tugging him into their bedroom.  


“All right. Red? Don't go after Fury. We'll do that as a team,” he said, following where she led.  


She nodded, and set to undressing him from the janitor's uniform he still wore, unlacing the brown work boots to let him step out of the whole affair that puddled at his ankles. He pulled the sheets free on the bed, and slid into place, laying on his side.  


“Go stay with him Red. He shouldn't be alone anymore,” he murmured, mostly asleep. 

She tapped his head once, reminding him about the other hearing aid that he sleepily pulled out and handed over. She took it, kissed his forehead and tucked him in. She found the other, and placed the pair in their case on the bedside table before leaving for “Phil-sitting”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS - this was quickly self-beta-ed on my laptop, which is not my preferred method. Any errors are solely my own. I may go back and work on it later.


	10. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: still don't own, please don't sue because I let my imagination out to play! Here is where you are seeing the numbering getting fixed. I apologize heartily for the multiple alerts. *hangs head*
> 
> Though, in looking through it all, the chapter numbers here throw me, but the titles are correct. This is chapter 9, Home.
> 
> 3/3/13 - Minor editing for formatting. Nothing else has changed.

The next time Phil was awake, Nat was watching over him.  


“любимая,”* she murmured, calling to him. His eyes slowly focused on her, and he quirked a smile. The hard lines of her face softened and relaxed then. “How do you feel?” she asked him.  


He attempted a deep breath, noting a lack of cannula with oxygen blowing into his nostrils. The breath hitched only a little, making him cough. His ribs didn't ache, though the chest muscles still burned a little. “All things considered, phenomenal,” Phil replied after the fit left him. Tasha gave him a small smile, and brought him a cup of water. “Clint?”, he asked, sipping the water.  


“Still sleeping. You know how he gets when its one of us,” she didn't have to remind Phil. They all acted pretty much in the same fashion. As much like an automaton until the missing was recovered. It was a good thing they were a triad. It let them work in tandem, protecting whichever members were down.

“What happened after the helicarrier?”, Phil asked. 

Natasha sighed, a deep, tired sound. She pulled her legs up in the chair, tucking her knees under her chin and wrapping her arms around them. The gesture told Phil that the story was intense, and the events had hurt Nat deeply. He held out his hand to her in invitation, raising an eyebrow when she hesitated. A brief wiggle of his fingers and she was in his lap, encircled by his arms. The tension had completely left her body when she got settled there between his legs. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and carded his hand through her hair, the length stopping at her shoulders.  


“I always preferred it this long,” he said. She smiled, and told her story.  


Phil chuckled when she told him about recalibrating Clint's brain, and teased, “So I wonder if he'll stop with the pop songs?” Tasha laughed, free and loud. It was a happy sound that filled Phil's heart.

They dozed, Phil holding Tasha, relaxed in the full sized bed until Bruce came to check on the progress of the nanites.  


“Oh, I'm sorry,” he apologized, freezing in the doorway to the room.  


“No, Dr. Banner, its okay,” Phil gestured for the scientist to move into the room. “So what's this device?”, he asked, seeing the strange object in Bruce's hand.  


“Ah, a scanner to check on the progress of the nanobots you were injected with when we picked you up,” Bruce explained, hoisting the scanner aloft. Tasha slithered off the bed and out of the way. She reclaimed the armchair to watch the proceedings.  


“Nanites?”, Phil asked, curious, “Last I knew, the brains couldn't get the programming right.”  


“Yes, that's correct,” Bruce went on, “They went ahead with the procedure on you, only to flush them 48 hours later to do things the 'old fashioned way'.” Bruce smiled, “We, that is Tony and I, figured out the bugs' bugs, and repaired them only to test the system out on you.”  


“Well, that explains why I feel so much better now,” Phil said, quite surprised.  


“They want to help Clint, Phil,” Tasha's voice was a near whisper beside them.  


Bruce looked embarrassed, even as he watched the scanner he manipulated near Phil's chest wound. “Only if he wants it. No matter what Tony assumes. Yes, it would be beneficial to our trials, but I will not force Clint to do something he doesn't want,” and the surety in Bruce's voice reassures both Agents.  


"Phil, he'd said he'd wait to see how you got on,” Tasha told her husband.  


“Sensible decision from our Haggard,” Phil declared, making Tasha snort, amused.  


Bruce finished with the scanner, “I need to get the results from the base unit back in the lab, but everything appears to be doing just fine. Do I need to do anything for Clint?”  


Tasha considered the offer for a moment. “I don't think so. He's just exhausted. He'll sleep for 10 hours, and need feeding and hopefully some time with Phil?”, the last was a question she hoped Bruce could answer positively.  


Bruce smiled, and the pair relaxed. “Nothing strenuous,” he stressed the word. He understood the nature of their relationship. “But we should even be able to let you move in with them tonight if you like?” Phil's smile brightened the room, and Tasha actually hugged Bruce, flustering the doctor. Bruce flushed bright pink in his cheeks and into the tips of his ears.  


Returning to a touch of seriousness, Bruce went on, “If Tasha will over see things, I can let you get out of bed to either shower or go sit on a couch in the common area?” He eyed Tasha, still standing quite close to him.  


She grinned, “I can keep him under control, Dr. Banner, trust me.” 

Phil tried not to laugh. Nat's eyes twinkled with mischief. Only Phil obeyed doctor's orders in regards to healing and staying in Medical, whereas the other two did everything they could to escape as soon as they were fully conscious and weaned off the stronger pain meds. Phil had to bribe them to keep them in place for the minimums the doctors required.  


“Huh, well then, I'll leave you to it. I'll also keep Tony out of your hair for awhile,” Bruce said and took his leave.  


Phil looked at his flame haired enchantress. “I would really like a shower,” he sighed.  


"Then let's get up and do that,” Nat said, pulling the blankets back to help Phil stand on wobbly legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*- Russian for beloved) Oops, short chapter. Sorry!


	11. Chapter 10 Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: More of the same. See the bottom for more notes!
> 
> 3/3/13 - Minor editing for formatting. Nothing else has changed.

When Clint gets up, only 7 hours have passed since they returned to New York with Phil. He needs to confirm it hadn't been a dream or delusion. He dresses in worn denim jeans and faded black t-shirt, but goes barefoot. The Tower has been home these past few months, and a make-shift, near useless medical ward is not going to make him put shoes on indoors. Leaving his bedroom, he pads down the hall to where they put Phil to finish convalescing. Quietly, he pushes open the door, but wakes the pair in Phil's bed regardless. He gives them a soft smile and enters the room. They return the smile, welcoming him.

Tasha attempts to vacate the bed for him, but a quick sign stops her movements. He just needs to see and touch Phil right now. Her position makes it that much more real to him, but Clint requires physical confirmation of his own. Extra reassurance.

In calm silence, the trio reconnect. Phil reaches for Clint, ignoring the slight strain on his chest and back. Clint quickly steps forward, wishing to erase all signs of pain from his husband's face. Their hands touch, clasp, grips tightening as though afraid they'll be torn apart again. Tears track relentlessly down cheeks of all 3 faces as the men gave each other slightly awkward one armed hugs. Tasha remained seated between Phil's knees, and kept wiping at her smiling face. Phil's other arm came up and his hand tightened on her shoulder, tugging. She carefully crawled deeper into his embrace, listening to his repeated murmurings of having returned to his Hawk and Spider. Clint pulled back enough to leave a trail of kisses across both his lovers' brows, tension deep within his bones fading away now that they were back together.

 

Time passed, as it does, with the three of them content to share their silent embrace and quiet, gentle kisses that reaffirmed their life, their love, and their connection to one another. They were only interrupted when Bruce and Tony came to check on Phil.  


“Well, all the spies are happily together again!”, Tony exclaimed, boisterous and hyper as he pushed through the door. Tasha tapped on Clint's arm to get his attention. Clint looked at her, then reluctantly pulled away from Phil, but kept hold of his shoulder. All three agents looked at the two geniuses, waiting for their news.  


“Prognosis, Doc?”, Phil asked of Bruce. Tasha's hands came up to translate for Clint.  


“Well, the nanites are performing better than expected,” he began, pausing for Tasha, “Tony and I think that it's safe to let you go, but we want you to schedule intense physical therapy. Also, while we don't need to constantly monitor your progress, we will still need to see you a few more times to make sure everything remains stable. Other than that, you're free,” Bruce explains, his phrasing slow enough that Tasha is able to easily keep up the signs for Clint's benefit. Clint grinned from beside Phil's head, hand on his shoulder tightening. The only outward signs of his joy. Tasha smiled, a faint shine of pearly, white teeth briefly seen before she adjusted her expression to something more demure, more refined. Phil smiles, lines around his eyes crinkling with his pleasure.

Tony looks at each of them, surprised by the lack of celebration. “This is it? No dancing in the halls? I expected a bit more cheer from you,” his tone carried the level of surprise he felt. His genius, being ignored, was bruised. More like his ego, on behalf of his genius.  


Phil snorted. “Spies,” he said, the single word conveying everything. 

That they kept everything buttoned up, and tended towards not being overly demonstrative, especially in public. That kind of thing could be dangerous in the long run. Tasha slithered out of the bed and together with Clint, helped Phil to his feet.  


“Let's go down to the common room so Pepper, Steve, and Thor can see you,” Clint offered, hands hesitant in the language of signs, not because he didn't know the signs, but because he was hovering near Phil as the older man shuffled into slippers and slid on a thick robe Tasha pulled from the closet and offered him.  


“We need to talk about that girl,” Phil reminded them, stepping gingerly across the room as though there were bombs underfoot, or just that he didn't trust his own stability after several months abed. Clint hovers, Tasha smirks at them from the chair. Phil heads for the bathroom, shaking his head in fond exasperation at them, and the two assassins keep an eagle, or hawk's eye on him until the door closes behind him.

Clint turned those sharp eyes on the scientists, pinning them in place like an entomologist placing a specimen. “You are absolutely sure on his recovery? He'll be fully field ready?” he demanded, hands moving with a level of force he reserved for fighting. Tasha translated, her own voice picking up the depth of promise if the geeks tried to worm around the truth.  


“We expect that to be the case,” Bruce says, a restraining hand on Tony, who looked fit to be tied at the idea of doubt on one of HIS projects, “It depends on his physical therapy, which will need to incorporate every system because of his prolonged bed rest. The therapist and his team will be here in two days,” Bruce explained. Tony managed to limit himself to an explosive, angry huff of air, settling under Bruce's handling.  


Tasha nodded, giving Clint a chance to absorb that information from reading Bruce's lips, then promising, “It is enough Hawk, we will help him return to full form.” Phil chose that moment to come back into the room and immediately noted the tension, minor though it was. He stopped in the doorway and looked at his spouses, gauging their moods.

Tasha appeared as inscrutable as ever, but there were signs of tension in the way she sat so still. Clint fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot that told Phil his archer needed more time with just the two of them.  


“All right, let's go,” Phil said, flicking a hand in an arc, indicating the door, and moving forward in that detestable old man shuffle he was forced to use instead of his usual confident stride. Clint was immediately beside him, ready in case he stumbled. Tasha brought up the rear. The two scientists got out of the way, then followed, quietly discussing the nanotech.

 

The group of five made their slow way to the common area, one floor up, where Pepper, Steve, and Thor sat around a table, each nursing drinks and waiting for news. When Clint and Phil entered the room, Thor was the first to spot them.  


“Hawkeye! Son of Coul! It is good to see you up and about!”, Thor's boisterously loud voice echoed in the space around them, welcoming them with its warmth. Steve and Pepper turned and smiled, pleased to see the agent mobile again.  


“Good to see you, sir,” Steve said, moving away from the table to come to shake Phil's hand. Phil blushed along the tips of his ears as he shook hands with his hero, making Clint grin. Pepper just gave Phil another hug, wiping happy tears from her cheeks. Tasha had disappeared along the way, and reappeared with a slim, black plastic case in one hand that she slipped to Clint who winked at her.  


“Do you want to sit here, or on the couch?”, she asked Phil, stepping up beside him.  


“Armchair, please,” Phil replied, heading to the nearest one in the room. It was an overstuffed monstrosity in a dark maroon leather. Tony usually joked it 'ate' people when they sank into its softness. He gingerly falls into it by loosening his knees, letting Tasha fuss with an extra pillow behind his back and a throw in his lap. Clint settles on the floor beside the handler's feet, not quite pressing against them. The others claimed places around the room: Tasha near Phil and Clint on the end of the ivory couch; Bruce and Tony on the matched loveseat, a tablet in each lap; Steve and Pepper filled in beside Tasha, their own tech in hand, and Thor settled in the other maroon armchair, hands curled over the handle of Mjolnir.

“So this girl?”, Phil prompted. Clint slipped his hearing aids in once he was settled, his back to the edge of the chair. Natasha informed everyone that the girl didn't know who hired her, but that her orders had been sent just before the team had discovered records of Phil's survival. Upon checking with JARVIS, Tasha learned that the AI had not been the only presence that day, hacking through the SHIELD mainframe. JARVIS was running a subroutine to track down traces of the other hacker.  


“Well, this ought to be good. Do we turn her over to SHIELD, or keep her here?”, Steve wanted to know, hands fidgeting with his own tablet, impatience in his voice.  


“We aren't set up to keep prisoners here,” Tony needlessly reminded them from his slouched position beside Bruce. He'd dropped his head to the back of the loveseat in boredom. He hated briefings, they felt too much like board meetings.  


“If we do that, they'll definitely know we have Phil,” Clint worried, briefly catching his lower lip between his teeth.  


“They may well know by now, Clint. It's okay. Not going anywhere,” Phil reassured the archer, twitching his leg sideways to increase the contact with the other man's upper body. Clint slouched in acknowledgement.  


“We can keep her for a day or two more, I think. Fury will know by then, and will bring a response,” Tasha informed them, committing the team to a decision.  


“We'll have a response for Director Fury,” Bruce quietly promised, making Tony shift warily beside him, tensing to see what response would be required, green or otherwise.  


Pepper spoke then, coolly professional if she took part in these kinds of meetings regularly, “I believe the room you have her in has a mag lock on it, so keeping her in, is no problem. Shall I get anything else for her relative comfort?” She looked at the three agents as she spoke, knowing their ideas on captives would be different from the others. SHIELD didn't necessarily follow Geneva, if it didn't suit them. Pepper could only hope these three would, at least this time.

“As I require less in the way of sleep, I shall take up the guard on her floor,” Thor broke his silence. He had experience regarding assassination attempts, but captives were rare for his people. When there was a living captive, they were treated well and ransomed back to their people.  


“Thank you Thor. I'll come relieve you after 4 hours, all right?”, Steve thank the princely warrior who nodded.  


“Well, that's solved,” Tony interrupted, too twitchy to sit still any longer, snapping himself forward and standing, surprising Bruce into a slight flinch. “What's next? Dinner?”  


“Pepper, if you could make sure the prisoner gets meals and a change of clothes,” Phil requested when the CEO stood up, ostensibly to corral Tony. Phil's request shortcircuited her.  


“Of course, Phil. Can I get you anything before I head back to the salt mine?” Phil smiled but declined and she left the team to decide their plans for the rest of the day. Their voices began to climb as they discussed, ne argued, their options.

 

They didn't realize they'd have company for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Announcement time! First, I'm sorry this is late. I know it's only Monday, and I'm not that late. However, I have preferred to get my stories out every weekend. That didn't happen this time. I have caught whatever ick is crawling around, thanks to my devoted husband *glares in his general direction*. That slowed me down considerably, for all that I'm medicated, and am still plugging away. I also got an editing request and that also made editing my work that much more thorough. And I'm running 3 stories at once, so everything got slow. No real excuse except being sick, and taking on a bit more work than I'm used to. 
> 
> Also, I've put up notes in my profiles (on FFN and AO3) where you can find me elsewhere if you want to get story background, or just come harass me. I write posts under filter, on Dreamwidth and Livejournal, so you won't be getting crap you don't want to see. Each journal has a 'sticky' that lists those filters, with the comments screened. You just have to leave me a comment saying “I'm from 'whatever fiction site', and I want to be on your fanfic filter!” and I'll let you in. You'll get to see where I ramble about my storylines, whine about the characters, and mumble about new stories. I also have a Facebook, under this handle (only thing that stayed the same, as the journals are older).
> 
> I might be going to an every other week posting schedule. A couple of new stories are trying to crowd their way out of my gray matter, and well, I need some time to write them, and keep up with the others. I don't want to release more, but I also feel like one or more of the 3 I've got going on are winding down. I would also like a couple weeks RIGHT NOW to get ahead of myself a bit more. So bear with me. I know where my stories are going, and the well is not drying up on any of them. I refuse to let a story just die and not get finished. (I also don't like those 'chapters' that aren't anything other than an author's note, which this is quickly becoming, lol!) So if I don't post for a couple weeks, please don't freak out, just, PM me or something – I have some health issues I have to wrangle (aside from this cold), and some other real life stuff I want to mess with. Cripes this is a long author's note. But I think that's everything. See you when I see you!


	12. Discovering Missing Personnel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Warnings for swearing. Everything else is the same old, same old. Whoops, sorry it's been a long time since I've posted. This story is actually nearing an end, and has maybe two chapters to go, one of which is an epilogue. Doesn't mean that “Blackhawk” is over, by no means. But you'll have to find me elsewhere to see what else I have planned for this trio.  
> PS - this is truly Chapter 11, really, I mean it. And I hate prologues now.
> 
> 3/3/13 - Minor editing for formatting. Nothing else has changed.

“Director Fury?”, Assistant Director Maria Hill knocked on her boss's office door.  


“Enter!” he growled. She opened the heavy, blast resistant door and walked in, frowning.  


“Sir, we've received a report from our team in Pennsylvania. It seems one of the patients took a turn a couple nights ago, and unfortunately died. Medical Examiner has the remains now,” she informed him, passing over a thin, manila folder. He took the folder, flipped it open and scanned the contents. His one eye tightened, then closed. One hand came up to rub his forehead.  


“Dammit. And I was considering telling them,” he muttered darkly.  


“Sir?” Hill queried, confused.  


“It's all right Maria. That was a report on Phil.” She was surprised, of all the injured agents from the attack on the helicarrier, she hadn't known Phil survived. “We kept it a secret for a reason, attempting new medical treatments. Apparently those failed more than was previously reported,” Fury sighed, sitting back in his chair, suddenly feeling old and useless. He'd lost his one good eye, and a damn good agent.  


“Well, I guess I have no new reason to visit the Avengers today, at least until I can assign them a new handler. Start the interview process on that, Hill. Jasper might make a good handler,” Fury ordered, getting back to business.  


“Yes sir. Jasper's on the short list. So is Jimmy,” she replied. He nodded, dismissing her. She left and went back to her duty station to sort through the potential agents for the new position of handler/liaison.

 

Three days later, a new update came in from Pennsylvania, causing Fury live up to his name.  


“What do you mean, the first report was false?” he roared into his phone, “You motherfuckers lost a patient that wasn't even ambulatory! How the hell do you loose someone stuck in a bed? You figure that out, then FIND HIM!”, Fury slammed the receiver back to the cradle, nearly snapping the plastic in half.  
“God damn it. Not enough to lose him, twice! Now to find out he was in fact alive, and now kidnapped! What the hell?” Fury snarled, throwing various files around his desk. He soon reached for the phone again, pushing the speed dial to connect him to Hill on the bridge.  
“Hill! Get Sitwell and Woo and report to my office, NOW!”, he snarled. He didn't wait for the answer before slamming the phone again. It creaked in protest of its treatment. He spun his chair to face the bank of windows and stared out over the waters of the Atlantic. 'What happened to you, Coulson? Dare I get the Avengers involved to hunt you down? Damn, what a mess.' Fury's thoughts were jumbled and troubled. He was soon joined by his three best agents, since the previously high ranked Coulson, Barton and Romanov were unavailable.

“All right,” he said, spinning back to face them, and putting his hands on his desktop. It was a move calculated to maintain control.  


“Sir, the Philly team reports an unusual piece of activity in the hospital's mainframe. And the written records don't bear up to scrutiny,” Woo began the meeting, reading a copy of the report all four of them had.  


“Confirmed. I have security imagery that the rest of you need to see,” Sitwell held out a datapad and touched the touchscreen to begin a scroll of grainy color photos. Each was of Dr. Bruce Banner, with some slight cosmetic differences. Darker hair, and no glasses being the prominent differences. Neater, better fitting clothes than they recalled him wearing, rounded out the changes.  


“Well then, that solves that problem. Jasper, Jimmy, you'll come with me to Stark Tower. Maria, you have command,” Fury decided.  


"Did they find Selvig?” she wanted to know.  


“Not yet,” was the reply as he stood to leave. Maria Hill nodded and preceded the three men from the room. Jasper and Jimmy waited for Fury before they followed a few steps behind the Director.

Fury practically stomped his way from his office in CNC* all the way to the flight deck where a helicopter waited to fly them into the New York Port Authority. It would take them a few hours to arrive, so Sitwell put a call in to the team overseeing Erik Selvig's recovery.  


“Epsilon Team, Agent Rider please. It's Sitwell. Status update,” he spoke into the headset's microphone calmly, then listened to the report the head Agent had to give him. He wrote notes on a small reporter's notebook he kept for such things, using it as a cross reference in building his own reports. The notes kept everything neat and orderly, just the way Sitwell liked it. Twenty minutes later, he disconnected the call with the Epsilon Team and gave Fury the condensed version of what he had.

Epsilon was a team of 6 agents, 2 of them medically trained, working with Erik Selvig on the remaining energy signatures from his interactions with the Tesseract. He was their best option for this study, being just as interested in the knowledge as the rest of the team. This had been the decision, versus keeping Specialist Barton on base. Barton was, at best, a recalcitrant individual and only two people could really get him to behave during any enforced down time he ever had to take on a SHIELD base. Selvig had been with Epsilon since the attack had wrapped up, though the only work being done was his, with Dr. Foster. He did have a thorough psych profile to his credit, something useful for his line of work. The rest of team had spent their time sorting through and crunching the data taken from multiple readings of the alien energy. So far, they hadn't found anything worthwhile.

 

The rest of the journey passed in silence after Sitwell finished his report. Once cleared by the Port Authority, the chopper moved further inland towards Stark Tower.  


“Call Stark,” Fury snaps. Sitwell pressed a series of buttons on his headset one more time, and got a connection to the Tower's phone exchange. JARVIS picked up.  


“Agent Sitwell calling for Mr. Stark,” his nasally voice intoned.  


“Mr. Stark is unavailable, Agent Sitwell, my apologies,” is the AI's practiced reply. Sitwell frowns, causing Fury to click his own headset into the conversation.  


“JARVIS, this is Nick Fury. Tell the team we're coming in for a conference,” and he hangs up without waiting for an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: * - CNC is 'command and control'. And just in case there's confusion over the time span depicted in this chapter compared to the last few: Finding the Anchor Pt 2 is the 1st Day (and the false report of Phil's death), Winching, both parts and Recovery are Day 2; and Home, plus Heart are Day 3. The end of this chapter lines up with the team getting that unexpected dinner guest from last chapter.


	13. Chapter 12 Fired Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Same ol, same ol. Warnings for cursing. Nearly the end folks. You'd call this a crescendo I think.
> 
> 3/3/13 - Minor editing for formatting. Nothing else has changed.

Within the Tower, the team was enjoying a relaxing afternoon after Phil's release from the tender mercies of Stark and Banner's trick show. JARVIS quietly pages Tony via the tablet he's reading, prompting the billionaire to exclaim, “Seriously?! The damn nerve.”  


Bruce, sitting next to him, asked, “Fury?” He hadn't caught the private chat between creator and AI, having been reading a new journal from the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. Tony nods, then drops the tablet on the nearest table with a clatter. The other two look up at the sudden noise.  


“Okay kids, it appears Fury is trying to beard us or something. JARVIS says he's inbound by chopper, at least 20 minutes out. Shall we play?” Tony was working himself into a froth over this latest invasion. He was thoroughly tired of Fury thinking he had any control over this team.  


Clint grinned from his spot, curled up next to Phil, “Phil, let's go up to the roof. That way, our esteemed director won't have so far to walk, his time being so valuable.”  


“You need to stop hanging out with Tasha,” Phil teased. Clint mock pouted, and laughed. He stretched out and stood, then turned to carefully pull Phil to standing. Phil managed to gain his feet without stumbling.  


“We could let him come to us,” Bruce said, eyes shading over to green briefly.  


“Hm, a visit from Big Green might be fun. He still owes for months ago,” Tony pondered, obliquely referring to an earlier incident*. He looked at Phil and Clint. “Want back up?” he offered, tensing to rise.  


“If you can keep from antagonizing him?” Phil asked.  


“No problems,” Tony's expression was a little manic. Clint waved them up. The foursome left the living room, heading for the elevator that would get them near the roof.  


“JARVIS, page Steve and Natasha and ask them to join us. Ask Thor to stay with the girl until we call for him,” Phil requested when they were in the elevator.  
“Certainly, Agent Coulson,” the AI responded. The team assembled on the roof. No one was in uniform. This would be a casual confrontation.

 

The chopper arrived not long after the team got themselves comfortable on the random bits of lawn furniture Tony had put up there in place of not having a lawn or backyard while they were in the city. The team appeared like a pride of lions, lounging or otherwise sprawled around the focal point of Phil sitting in an arm chair. Clint and Tasha, somehow in matching black jeans and purple shirts, immediately flanked him, sitting directly on one of the all weather rugs left scattered about. Steve, in a white shirt and blue jeans, sat in a lounger directly behind them, while Tony, ubiquitous band shirt and faded jeans, and Bruce, green shirt and khakis, sat slightly in front of him, but on either side.

Agents Sitwell and Woo preceded Fury from the chopper, ducking to avoid the still spinning blades. They stepped off the helipad and walked towards the team. Both visibly flinched to see Phil Coulson alive and well before them, if dressed rather casually to their normal, in sweat pants and a tank top. They then noticed the deceptively relaxed postures of Phil's best assets, and their tight expressions. They shared a look, conveying “This won't be pretty” in that glance. Fury came up behind them, a scowl fixed firmly in place. He took in the appearance of the team, and then looked at his one good eye. Internally he sighed. Outwardly, he stopped a few feet from Coulson and addressed the team.  


“Well, that takes care of that,” he began in his 'business as usual' voice.  


“That takes of what, Director?”, Phil's soft voice carried. It was the one he used when dealing with particularly obtuse agents. It usually had lesser agents quaking in their boots and suits. Only Fury was unmoved.  


Fury rubbed the bridge of his nose, hoping to stave off the incipient headache. “Phil,” he said his agent's name, trying to apologize.  


“I'm sorry sir, was there something you wanted to tell the Avengers? Perhaps about their handler? Or something you should address to my family?” Phil spoke in a rhythmic cadence, lulling the interlopers into a false sense of security. Clint and Tasha shifted in tandem, just a hint of a lean towards their husband.  


Fury's usual stiff, no nonsense posture relaxed visibly as he realized this meeting was not going to go his way. “All right. Sitwell, Woo, go back to the chopper and wait for me there,” Fury commanded, making the other two agents straighten up in surprise. They didn't want to leave Fury alone.  


“Actually,” Bruce drawled from the back. He leaned a little forward over his knees, hands loose over them. His intense stare was unshadowed this time, his glasses not present, 'just in case'. He easily captured the gazes of the three from SHIELD, and held them, judging. “We have someone you can take off our hands. Seems she didn't want Phil to return to us either,” he informed them. While not precisely true, it would be up to SHIELD to get the full story. If they could.  


“What happened?” Fury demanded. Heads would roll from the team in Philadelphia. Bruce smiled his shy, mild mannered scientist smile. Tony laughed, a dark sound.  


“After we discovered Phil alive, we learned there was a new attempt on his life. So, we took him into _our_ care,” there was a slight emphasis on 'our' that caught Fury's attention. Banner didn't mean just the people he could see right then. “Seeing as how you can't seem to protect him, as we'd prefer,” he explained. 

Sitwell and Woo watched with growing horror as Bruce took on aspects of his other self. His eyes began to glow iridescent green, and his skin tone became decidely more olive than his normal complexion. Muscles became more defined as he simple got larger. Fury appeared unmoved at this display. He refused to show any weakness in front of more agents. The other agents tried not to flinch in fear.

“Phil, are you all right with this arrangement?” he asked, cautious. He had no real desire to be at loggerheads with this team of super humans. At this point, he was sure they'd defend and protect Phil with everything they had, destroying the three of them without breaking a sweat.  


Phil slowly smiled and looked at his friends, Jasper and Jimmy. They knew then, in that moment, Phil would not return full time to their ranks. He redirected his gaze to his former boss. “I am very happy now, Director. I have my family at my side again. And I have a new career to look forward to,” he informed his former boss. Clint and Tasha just smiled.  


“And your assets, Agents Barton and Romanov?”, Fury needed to know.  


Phil glanced down at his wife and husband. Clint turned just enough to bring both into his line of sight, and indicated with a sign that Tasha could answer for them both.  


“We will send the appropriate paperwork along in a few days, Director Fury,” she politely informed the men intruding on her family's private time. Her soft voice held only a hint of her old Russian accent.  


“I see. Then shall I have Sitwell and Woo gather up your visitor?” Fury acknowledged.  


“No need, Thor is on his way with her now,” Bruce spoke again, voice gone deep and rough edged, as it does when Hulk speaks.  


As if on cue, a nearby door opened, and a young girl stepped out. She wore a pair of jeans and a pale pink tank top donated by Pepper and Tasha. Her chestnut hair was loosened from the ponytail she'd worn in the hospital. Thor emerged behind her, just two steps back. He cast a shadow with his looming presence, but she didn't seem to notice him. Just kept her eyes forward as she walked unhurriedly across the roof.  
Fury, Sitwell and Woo watched the pair approach. Sitwell and Woo were each concerned, thinking 'This slip of a girl tried to kill Phil?' As they hadn't seen Phil after the invasion, they had no idea how bad it had really been. Phil was, to them, the Agent of Agents, and even badly wounded, he was capable of surprising feats. His extraordinary abilities were the reason, in their minds, that Phil was Fury's right hand man.

Thor and the girl reached the three SHIELD agents, who were surprised by the deep frown on the usually jovial man's face.  
“Have a care with this one, gentlemen. She is quite wily. Without the swift and just actions of the Hawkeye, this meeting would yet be different,” Thor solemnly intoned, his voice a basso rumble. Woo pulled a pair of zip cord cuffs from his jacket pocket and secured the girl's hands. She made a small sound when the zip cord tightened, but Woo ignored her.

Phil gave the three interlopers a soft, dangerous smile. “I think it's time to leave, don't you?” he asked quietly. Clint, Tasha, Tony and Bruce all stiffened, waiting. Steve sat forward, the only obvious movement he'd made in the entire encounter. Everyone anticipated Fury's response, waited for the command to hunt.  


He simply nodded, and jerked his head backwards, telling the others to move out. When they were gone, Fury visibly slouched. “For what it's worth, I'm sorry Phil,” he apologized.  


Clint gave Fury a rictus grin. “Too little, too late,” he snarled, all coiled power like a drawn bow. Natasha reached her hand over to him, placing it on his closer knee. He barely subsided.  


“Clint has the right of it, Director,” she murmured.  


“I suggest you make a strategic advance back to the helicarrier, Director. I believe the Avengers are going,” Steve trailed off.  


“Independent,” Tony supplied, a vicious, victorious grin emerging on his face.

Director Nicolas Fury left the Tower, for the last time. He and his agents returned to the helicarrier, whereupon Woo took the girl down to interrogation, and Sitwell went to start on his reports. He discovered a new file in his email cache, from JARVIS, detailing everything the Avengers had been able to learn about the girl. There was also a simple statement, “Agent Phillip J. Coulson has not yet been avenged. Your house is infested, get an exterminator, or we will.” It was signed, with a stylized “A”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN - * see Vital Communication, chapter 20 for the details of that episode. http://archiveofourown.org/works/523938/chapters/927057


	14. Chapter 13 Reassemble the Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Do not own the marvelousness that is Avengers. Much as I might like to. Idle sand box playing! Good cripes, figuring out guns and related stuff is harder than I thought! I miss sword and sorcery! This was a hard chapter to write – please see my AN at the bottom for some of the reason why.
> 
> 3/3/13 - Minor editing for formatting. Nothing else has changed.

Later that week, in the middle of physical therapy, Bruce paid Phil a visit, dragging the nanite scanner along beside him. Phil was jogging on a treadmill, working through a cool down phase when Bruce comes to stand in front of the machine to catch his attention.  


“If you can stop, Phil, that would be great,” he said. Phil nodded, and raised a hand, indicating another 5 minutes. Bruce turned away to set up the machine.  


Phil powered down the treadmill and joined Bruce by a nearby workout bench. “Time for a new scan then?” Phil asked, watching Bruce manipulate the machine's controls.  


“Yes, need to make sure the nanites are still functioning as programmed,” Bruce answered.  


“Good. Though I feel fine,” Phil replied, smiling. Bruce indicated the bench and Phil sat. He brought his breathing under control while Bruce ran the scan.  


“Bruce, can you tell me who was lead on the extraction op last week?” Phil asked. It was his first opportunity to do so since the roof confrontation, and really since being brought home.  


“That? Joint effort,” Bruce replied, distractedly, calibrating the scanner for a second pass.  


“Oh?” Phil wondered, curious.  


“Mhm,” Bruce answered, his attention still held by the scanner. He didn't really want to admit that last week had been a secret dream come true to his inner 8 year old. Hulk had chortled in the back of his conscious mind for nearly the entire operation, claiming they were now “International Men of Mystery”.  


“Well, good game, Doctor,” Phil praised.  


Hulk chortled within Bruce's mind, briefly causing his eyes to shade to hazel and back to brown.  


“Thanks. Well, scan looks good. We'll do another in a couple of weeks, which should be enough. Tony and I are going to trial these soon with some veterans. We can't replacing missing limbs, but we're getting there,” Bruce is so quietly pleased and proud, it takes Phil's breath away. How could General Ross have tried for so long to ruin this man's life? The work he was doing now was nothing short of life altering for just about everyone in contact with him.  


“And Clint?” he asks. The minute shake of the doctor's head is answer enough. Phil sighed, pinching his eyes closed.  


“It's fine. He's worried about you, and there's still time to use the technology. Remember, he's not broken,” Bruce admonishes lightly.

Anger flares in Phil, but dies a quick death. It isn't that he's afraid of whatever response Bruce would muster, but that he is right. Clint is not broken, and if he wants this, must come to it himself.  
“You're right, of course. How stupid of us. My apologies Bruce, are we done?” Phil deflated, speaking in quiet, defeated tones. Bruce reached across the space separating them and grasped his shoulder to squeeze in sympathy.  


“Yes. Go talk to Clint. I think he's in the range. Natasha should be with him,” Bruce informed him, taking the scanner and leaving the agent alone with his thoughts.

“Dammit,” Phil snarls after about 10 minutes. “JARVIS, contact Natasha quietly, and ask her to not let Clint out of her sight. I'm coming to talk to them and we'll need complete privacy.”  


“Of course, Agent Coulson. I have texted her your request and received confirmation. I will establish privacy setting wherever you choose to have your meeting.” And Phil could swear there was a touch of innuendo in that last part. He shook his head at Stark's AI, and left the gym to make his way down to the range.

Tony's rebuild of the Tower had been fascinating to read about, but the one thing he hadn't been able to easily install was a full sized shooting range without closing off an entire floor and rearranging all of the Tower residents. The compromise was one of Tony's personal garages beneath the Tower that had been cleared of vehicles. Phil hadn't gotten the full story from either genius, and his spouses could only surmise that it was part of the whole “Avengers in the City” package Tony had whipped together after nearly 4 months in the mountains at the Stark Mansion. Phil had checked the records, and even JARVIS would only say that “Sir had elected to relocate his collection of 5 series and IROCs to a secure warehouse for the foreseeable future”. And no one would say anything more.

 

The private elevator with the ostentatious A on the doors whisked Phil the 96 odd floors straight to the ground level where he had to transfer to the garage elevators. Tony had groused long and loud about there being no easy way to dig so far down into the garage levels without destabilizing the entire building. It had taken both Pepper and Bruce to control that fit of Stark pique.

Phil arrived at the door to the range, and keyed in his personal code, allowing the keypad to register both the numerics, as well as his fingerprints. Then he leaned forward to allow the optics to scan his retina. The door clicked and hissed open, allowing him entry. He stepped inside and heard the report of 2 guns in the distance. Off to one side of the range was the weapons locker, kept secured, even there, by thumbprint locks on each section. All of the Avengers were coded to the lockers, even those who didn't normally use weapons, or those who didn't use projectile types. Everyone had been asked to be familiar with them. Phil considered each locker and their contents and chose one, pressing his thumb to the indented scanner. The red light flashed twice before changing to green and the door clicked open. He scanned his selections and chose a Ruger Blackhawk* and a double handful of shells. He also grabbed ear and eye protection before he walked to the firing lanes and found where his spouses were.

 

Natasha had her Glocks* in the fourth lane, powering through target practice. She was focused on her task, muffled from her surroundings by the thick pair of black ear protectors. Clint was 3 lanes down, practicing with a .30-.30 Winchester*, dropping brass shells to the floor with irregular plinks. The cannon like cracks from the lever action were only slightly muffled by the sound dampening built into the room. It was fortunate that the range was in the deepest level of the basement. No one could hear the sounds of most of the weaponry the team elected to use on a given practice day.

Phil chose the lane in between them, donned his protective gear, loaded the cylinder's 6 chambers, and called up a target. He took a couple of deep breaths, let his mind go idle, raised the gun, aimed, pulled down on the hammer, and squeezed the trigger left handed. The snap-pop-bang of the gun slipped between the staccato of the Glocks on Phil's left and the thunder of the Winchester on his right. Ten rounds later, and the companion sounds have dropped off, leaving Phil alone in his actions. He knew he wasn't alone in the range though. He squeezed off the last two rounds, and put the gun on the arming shelf in front of him. He counted slowly to 5 and stepped back, pulling the ear mufflers off his head as he turned. Tasha and Clint waited a few feet away from the firing line, and pulled off their own mufflers when they saw Phil coming toward them.  


“We need to talk,” Phil spoke without preamble. They nodded. Weapons were racked back in their lockers before the trio left the range. A small bot whirred to life as they left, sweeping up and down the lanes, vacuuming up spent shells.

“Where do you want to go? Back to our apartment?”, Clint wondered as they hit the first floor and the private elevator.  


“Hm, there, or anywhere. JARVIS has promised complete privacy, but our apartment is more comfortable,” Phil allowed. Tasha has no particular opinion, willing to go where her men led, this time.  


They ended up in their apartment, in the spacious living room, each in their preferred seats when not wanting specifically to cuddle and basically be a tangled lump together.

Phil sighed, rubbing his face. “Clint, I think we need to apologize to you. We've assumed a few things and have not been fair to you,” he began. Clint stared at his husband, then turned his sniper's gaze to his wife, curled in her favored, dark green cotton chair.  


“Really? For what?” Clint asked, a little confused.  


Natasha leaned forward in her seat, “любимая*, we assumed you'd want to fix your hearing. We have been thinking of you as less than whole, which is further from the truth.” She stopped, guilt appearing on her face for thinking of one of her men as less than they were. Less than completely capable no matter what their physical status. The emotion was so rare for her beautiful, porcelain face. Really any was, but she was freer in her expressions in private, and with those she trusted most.  


“Oh Nat, no,” Clint slid off his chair, crossed the small space between the chairs, and hit his knees on the floor in front of her. He wrapped his arms around her body and tugged her close. “No, I did not think like that. You shouldn't either. Either of you,” he included Phil in his statement. He pushed up from the floor, Tasha gathered in his arms and spun on his heel to the couch where Phil had sat down. He carefully let her down beside Phil, then settled beside the red head, reaching an arm behind her to touch Phil.  


“Look, I get what you're doing. I'm fine. We're fine,” he leaned into Tasha's side, making her lean into Phil.  


“Clint, wait,” Phil said, twisting his body to look at them both. “Have you **really** thought about the benefits of the nanite treatment vs staying impaired? As something you want, not what we want for you? We already know its been nothing short of miraculous for me.” Phil was trying to make sure Clint understood where he was coming from. Where they were both coming from.  


“It has! And I'm damn grateful the Science Bros figured it out. We were lost without you, unstable and imperfect,” he sighed, a deep puff of air that stirred Tasha's red curls. She leaned up into him, comforting him, and taking comfort. “I want to not be dependent on the hearing aids, and not on SHIELD for them. We just destroyed that link. After 10 years, I'm allowed a little anxiety, okay?” he sighed, sounding a touch lost still.  


“Of course, my Hawk. Whatever you need. You know Stark would be happy to outfit us all with whatever we needed, no matter what it was, right?” Phil told him, clasping their hands together, fingers intertwined. Tony had given so much already, pulling together this odd ball little family.  


“Yes. I'm just not ready yet,” Clint said, uncertain over the whole situation.  


“All right, it's fine. I'm sure the procedure can wait. Bruce told me today they were going to trial the technique on some military veterans. Maybe see how that goes, and you'll have an opportunity for a more informed decision,” Phil responded, stroking his thumb across Clint's knuckles.

Tasha had stayed mostly silent throughout this exchange, tucked between both men like a small, china doll. “Boys, we are stronger together than separate. Time has taught us this, yes?” a touch of her accent showed through her words, “Being cut loose from SHIELD was inevitable. We will pick up and keep going. Nothing truly changes between us. We have no one to answer to now, just ourselves.”  


“The rest of the Avengers,” Clint mused.  


“Will become our new family,” Phil decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: * - gun stuff: The Ruger is a single action, .357 revolver; the Glocks are the model 26s, 9mm; the Winchester is an unspecified, lever action rifle using the .30-.30 cartridge. I have more than likely fudged range safety! I'm a medievalist, please be kind! They also should have cleaned those guns before racking them again. Agents truly would know better, please assume they did!
> 
> * - Russian – beloved, according to Eudict and Google Translate (also my iPad's Russian translation app).
> 
> * - on the subject of Deafness – please don't send me hate mail because I had Phil and Tasha want what they thought was best for Clint. Remember, this was an accidental thing, not something he was born with. AND, the arc is called Vital COMMUNICATION for a reason. This is not about magically making deafness (or Deafness) go away. The Deaf community is a vital, vibrant place as diverse as the Hearing. I always let my characters tell me what they want. Clint never did in this case. I don't know what will happen in the future.


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Yep, it's over. For now. Other than that, of course I don't own Avengers.

Natasha sat at the large table centrally located to the open floor plan of living room/kitchen. The thick slab of wood could seat the entire team, but currently bore the signs of a massive effort to clean all of the weapons they personally owned. Clint was down on the range with some experimental arrows Tony had given him, and Phil was in his office off the communal level, completing paperwork from their last call out.

While they no longer answered to SHIELD, and thus, weren't specifically required to file any paperwork at all, Phil had decided that tracking details from missions was a good thing, and would help them get better as a team, as well as individuals. He was currently filing requisition forms on Clint's arrows, and Tasha's bullets, items that were almost always in high demand.

When she was halfway through the equipment on the table, her boys came home. They joined her at the table, silently picking up pieces she hadn't gotten to, and going to work on them.

“All's well?”, she asked, cleaning the bore on one of Phil's pump action shotguns.

“Mhm,” Clint answered with a simple noise, taking apart one of her Bites on a small, terry cloth towel.

“All caught up with the requisite paperwork. The Avengers dedicated departments will be in full swing come Monday,” Phil answered with more details, pulling a pistol crossbow closer to himself. He quickly had it apart before reaching for cleaning supplies.

“And our weekend?”, Clint asked, taking a pair of tweezers to the internal mechanism of the Bite.

“Open. Though I think Stark said something at breakfast about going to the Mansion for a few days,” was Phil's answer. The crossbow was in its component pieces as he inspected the stock for cracking.

“Any reason?”, Tasha asked, moving on to oiling the hardwood stock of the shotgun.

“None at the time,” Phil replied, checking the bow arms of the crossbow.

Clint was silent, working through his tasks on the Widow's Bite to reassembly. He thought about the amenities available at the mountain house, and considered what they could get up to for a relaxing weekend away. 

“Paintball war?”, he suggested, the light of mischief sparking in his pale, blue-green eyes. Phil snorted something of a laugh, and Tasha just blinked at the archer. “No, really. The three of us versus Steve, Tony, and Bruce, or we could mix it up, since we'd win with an arm tied behind our backs, each.”

“But war games? On an off weekend? No thanks, Feathers,” Tasha teased with the nickname Clint hated. She reassembled the shotgun and put it aside.

“I believe I'm in agreement with Red. When was the last time we just had a relaxing time that did not involve one of us recuperating?”, Phil wanted to know, finishing with the crossbow, setting it aside.

“All right, I concede to you both. We won't do anything this weekend, but relax in the lap of Stark's luxury,” Clint amended.

“Ugh, please! I do not need images of Stark like that!” Tasha shuddered in faux revulsion, laughing and threw a wad of cleaning rag at Clint's grinning face.

“JARVIS, please inform Mr. Stark that we'd be happy to join him and the others this weekend,” Phil asked of the air, knowing that even with the usual high level of privacy the AI afforded the trio, he'd pick up and deliver the message. They finished their chosen task of servicing their weapons cache and put them away in the converted closet before joining the rest of the team for dinner.

 

It was Steve's turn to cook, and his choice was steak au poivre, with twice baked potatoes, and a mescalun salad. Everyone exclaimed delight over how well Steve had pulled the meal together, praising his newfound talent.

Thor spoke, “I wish to invite my lady, Jane. She could use the chance away from her stars.” Tony nodded, expecting the request and toggling a button on his tablet to make a note to fly her in that night.

“We could go fishing,” Steve threw in. Something he'd always wanted to do.

“Lake's stocked with trout and bass. Should be decent,” Tony replied. Steve nodded his thanks, and asked JARVIS for a piece of holo-paper to create a list of materials he'd need. Tony made a note to get it all delivered by Sunday morning.

Bruce was quietly contemplative beside Tony, nibbling on a piece of sourdough.

“I think the three of us are just going to laze about the place. Soak the ink and gunpowder out of our skins in that hot tub,” Phil allowed, getting nods of agreement from Tasha and Clint on either side of him.

“Maybe I'll join you. Hot tub's plenty big enough?” Bruce's statement was definitely more of a question, but the trio just smiled warmly, assuring him that he'd not be a bother.

“Tony, what about you?”, Steve asked, curious about their host's activities.

“Heh, promised Pepper I'd get some SI work done. Bruce promised,” and the physicist blushed while attempting to distract the engineer from completing that statement. Bruce managed to simply pinch Tony on the arm, causing him to yelp in surprise. Tony rubbed the offended sight, and scowled a little. Bruce remained unrepentant.

“I promised, or rather **we** ,” the word deepened in tone as Hulk made his presence briefly known, “promised to help Tony with some lab work.” Bruce grinned a little, the expression all Hulk.

“Is that what the geeks are calling it now?” Clint sniggered, receiving his own pinches from both spouses. “Spousal abuse!”, he cried, leaping away from the table, his chair hitting the floor.

“Spousal?” Thor asked, “I do not think I am familiar with this word.” He was contemplative, trying to determine the meaning of the word. He was easily able to discern the root and the 'lightbulb' moment made Clint giggle at the sight.

“We're married,” Phil said, baring the simple truth. They had no reason to hide, it just hadn't come up before.

“Wait,” Steve wanted to know, “Married to whom?” He wasn't upset that there was a same sex marriage in the team, he just needed clarification in his own head.

“Each other,” Phil's attempt at clarity generated more mud for Thor, Steve, and Tony. He hadn't moved at all, so there was no clear indication who he meant.

Clint came back to stand behind the chairs of his spouses. “Phil, you've broken them,” he teased, voice a near whisper.

“Easy to do,” Tasha volleyed back.

“Look, this is how it works. Assassins and spies, remember?”, Clint began to explain. The others nodded. “We have a number of aliases, so we,” the archer paused, considering. Bruce had decided to clear the table, and had collected everyone's plates, and now headed for the kitchen. He didn't need to listen to this, knowing about their relationship already.

 

“We chose among those and married. However, to us, it is only Clint, and Phil, and Natasha, not whomever is on the various, worthless licenses,” Tasha answered decisively.

“Worthless?” Steve asked, “Why do it if you think it's worthless?”

“Just the paperwork is, Steve. We have that mostly to prove relationships when necessary. It has happened a few times,” Phil replied.

“It is rare, but not unheard of among my people. If you are happy, then how can we not as well?” Thor summed it up. Steve looked contemplative, but otherwise appeared fine with the news.

Tony looked like he wanted to make some kind of ribald quip, but caught sight of Bruce in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes aglow, a small frown on his face. He swallowed it, and comes up with, “Congratulations you three,” which is incredibly mild for him. Clint grins, Tasha smirks with a raised eyebrow, and Phil is his usual, blank faced self. They know that Bruce had something to do with Tony's lack of response, even if the man was not currently present.

“Thank you,” he said, standing. He offered a hand to Tasha, who accepted it, and was gently tugged to her own feet. Clint straightened up beside them.

“So our plan to leave here for the Mansion is what?”, Phil asked of Tony before the trio left the dining room. They lingered in a line that Tony thought screamed, “Conga!”, except he was sure he'd get knifed if he so much as breathed a word.

“Yeah, tomorrow, 10 am. Chopper will be ready to go then. I was going to fly it, but if Featherhead here prefers?” Tony drops the offer, and Clint grinned again, nodding.

“We'll be on the roof at 9 for preflight then. Standard equipment?” Phil confirmed, and his question isn't for luggage, but for settling the paranoia the team has about going anywhere unarmed, and unarmored.

Tony nodded, and the trio drifted out, other things on their collective minds. The rest of the team eventually disbursed to their own evening pursuits.

 

Phil tugged his spouses into their apartment, and Clint made sure the locks were engaged, while Tasha moved into their kitchen and started preparations for hot chocolate.

“Usual night in, lovelies?”, Phil queried, hanging his jacket in the closet of the bedroom.

“Good God, yes, please!”, Clint calls from the kitchen, where he's helping Tasha assemble a plate of dainty looking snacks to go with their chocolate.

Phil reappears in sweats and an old, gray t-shirt, dragging a faded purple, red, and white Afghan over one shoulder. He padded barefoot to the couch and nudged over a separate, matching piece that turns the odd, open end into a deep corner. Clint and Tasha appeared behind the couch, one with the plate of light snacks, the other with three mugs of Aztec style hot chocolate. The bitter, spiciness of the drink is offset by the light sweetness of dates, and black grapes, along with smooth, creamy goat cheese and buttery crackers. Phil seated himself first, the Afghan becoming a lump in his lap while he waited for the others. Clint just climbed over the back, nimble as ever, plate balanced between his fingers like it was his bowstring. Tasha came around the other side, shaking her head at Clint's usual silliness. She handed a mug to him, then one to Phil, and then curls up on his other side. The blanket's edges get tugged off his lap and are pulled over the other two. The plate of snacks ends up balanced on his thighs. His most beloved pair of people curl into him and each of them relaxes and slots together like the well loved puzzle they are.

This arrangement settles them for the night, and it's not long before Clint is accepting the empty plate piled with empty mugs and moving it to the coffee table and settling back into the warmth of the 'Phlintasha' tangle under the soft yarn of the Afghan and aligns the length of his body with Phil's. Tasha curls over them, light like down, but solid as life in their arms.

Slowly, they drift off to sleep, heartbeats and breaths dimming, matching. Their combined power coming to rest together as they take their ease, letting their cares slip off like droplets of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming along with me on this journey. I hope you enjoyed the tale, and that you might find it in you to look for their next adventure, whenever I get around to writing it. Be well!

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I am well aware that it does not take 2 days to reach Quantico, VA from NY. Realize that sending Thor and Loki off happens at some undescribed time of day, so they left the same day, just later.


End file.
